


In Control

by Oienel



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Sex, F/M, Motorcycles, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-01 14:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10191851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oienel/pseuds/Oienel
Summary: Yixing loses his grip, both on the track and in his life, and you are a countersteer he needs to go straight again.





	1. Chapter 1

You are laying in your bed. Your digital clock is the only light in the room, its display coloring your white sheets with green tint. You should be asleep, but the night is unnaturally silent and you can feel the anxiousness creeping under your skin, flowing through the vessels with your blood. It’s not right. Quiet nights are not what you have become accustomed to.

Time on your clock changes, showing full hour, why is it so quiet?

You turn on your side, you need to sleep nonetheless. How can you not be able to sleep, when you finally get a perfect surroundings for a good night rest? You will yourself to close your eyes, and to even your breath. You know that your effort is futile, even when you try.

Sudden buzz in your veins makes you lift your head abruptly. You freeze in this precarious position, in the middle of sitting up. You listen, trying to distinguish whether you are imagining it, brain offering you sounds to fill out the silence or you are really hearing this familiar sound.

You jolt out of the bed and quick steps lead you to the window. Your hands fall on the marble sill, rock cold under your fingertips.

The street outside is quiet and there is no soul in sight. Street lamps are illuminating three-lane street. The sound is getting more persistent, rumbling, reverberating in the air. Another source of this peculiar sound chips in. And another.

You see your own reflection in the window, and you notice your smile. Your anxiety is calming down, sheer excitement forcing it out. You bounce a little on the cushions of your feet, your elation getting better of you.

Sudden thought makes your run to your kitchen and you grab a bottle of water, just to run back. You don’t know how long it will take, so you want to have a drink at hand.

You open your window and climb up on the sill, and you sit down, feet dangling in the air. Night is cool, but not cold, and you relish soft breeze caressing your face.

The sound is really loud by now, and you hear slam when one of your neighbors shuts their window. You are probably the only one enjoying this weekly show.

Sources of the sound are in your eyesight. New lights appear on the street as five rumbling, two-wheeled machines arrive. It’s a majestic sight really.

As always they come to a halt at the bus stop. You bite your lips, worrying the lower one between your teeth. You shift in your seat, window frame digging into your thighs. The guys are already off their motorcycles, faint laughter reaching your ears. It’s clear that they are friends. You sigh, wishing they hurried up.

But it takes several minutes before they climb up on their motorcycles. The buzzing excitement, that subdued during their greeting, is back and you take a gulp of water.

The rumbling sound is back as well and you stick the bottle between your thighs and you focus on the riders. One after another, they take off and make a first, tentative lap and then they are off. Five monsters speeding, roaring in the night, taking the deserted street into their possession, tight turns leaving black marks on the tarmac.

You are not really sure why they come here, week after week, but you are fond of those Tuesday nights. And you are definitely jealous of their freedom.

Freedom brought by this speed, air yanking their padded clothes, engines howling in the night. Just sitting on your sill you know that the adrenaline they feel, the buzz in the blood is intoxicating, freeing.

That’s why you watch them week after week.

Finally they form a line and you know that the show is over, but you won’t go to bed until you see the sign. They take off in the direction they came from, and just as they approach the turn, one after another they lift their left hand and disappear into the night.

Your feet are frozen when you back into your bed. Sunrise is already approaching, but you are satisfied.

You dream of the wind ruffling your hair.

*

Your body is used to waiting for the show on Tuesday nights. So when you wake in the wee hours of the Thursday morning you are lost. You lay on your bed, confused, not yet privy to your surroundings, shedding the last of your sleep. The world is gray, new day already on its way.

You hear a tale-telling rumble, and suddenly you are awake. You sit up quickly, searching for your phone to check the date. It’s not Tuesday. Sure as hell, it’s not Tuesday.

You scramble to your feet and you storm through your room to the window, and you see him. A lone rider, speeding down the three-lane street. He goes into tight turn, his knee nearly on the tarmac, but you can tell that his line is perfect. He is not shaking, he is looking far ahead, not as a newbie would do. He is sure, but at the same time you can tell, that something is not right.

You’ve seen them so many times that you’ve learned to see. Not to look and appreciate, you’ve learned to see their lines, to see how they lead the machine, to see the sequences they have to go through, to see the slightest error in their ways.

And now, you can see that he is overbearing on the clutch, now you can see that he is too tense, now you can see that even though he maintains good posture, and that he is, rightfully so, looking where he is going, his elbows are straight and set, and you know that’s wrong.

You are on the edge, as if you were watching a disaster movie. You get this ominous feeling that a tragedy is bound to happen, but you can’t do anything to stop it. You are powerless.

You hear another engine approaching, softer, muffled, and you realize that a car is coming. It’s a public street, after all. But a car should not be a problem to a seasoned motorcyclist.

And of course the rider is a seasoned driver, and he easily bypasses him, unnecessarily swerving first to his left, then to the right, allowing his rear tire to even with the front one. It’s a beautiful maneuver really, but not one to do on the public road, not one you should do while not being completely yourself.

It’s 4:50, and you can’t take it anymore. You stuff your feet in your worn sneakers, you grab the long jacket to put on your shirt and shorts you use as a pajamas, and just like that you are out of the doors.

You are not going to stand in your window, and watch him kill himself.

It’s cold outside and your skin immediately reacts, breaking out with goosebumps, as you hurry to the street. You reach the bus stop just as he is taking turn at the end of the street, not even leveling his head to counter the angle.

The _idiot_ is barely counter steering.

“Hey!” You shout on top of your lungs and wave at him, realizing that you left your house without a plan how to stop him. He speeds past you, and your hair covers your eyes. You watch him as he reaches the other end, and takes equally dangerous turn, and you try screaming and waving again.

You are not stupid enough to try more invasively.

It takes him two more round before he notices you. He is the middle of the street and he just lays down the machine to make it turn as close to turning on a spot as possible, and your jaw drops.

That’s not dangerous anymore, that is a death wish.

He comes to a halt so close that you nearly believe he run over your feet. He cracks it, making the engine roar threateningly, and it just pisses you off.

He turns his head to you, and makes no movement to either kill the engine or take off the helmet. Or even open it.

“Take it _off._ ” You slur, through your teeth motioning to his black helmet. For a second you think that he is going to ignore you, but finally he kills the engine, straightening in his seat, taking the gloves off, and finally he takes off his helmet.

You are not surprised to see a young man hiding under it. Everyone can be reckless, but men in their twenties somehow always find themselves in the vanguard.

You notice he is handsome, before you take a swing, and your hand connects with his cheek, with a loud slap. Your skin tingles madly, his head turned to the side. You can’t see his eyes, but you know he is fazed.

“What do you think you are doing now?! Do you have a death wish?! If yes, sit the fuck down, call somebody, maybe one of the those who ride with you on Tuesdays, and talk it out! You should know that motorcycle is dangerous, and the way you’ve been driving is just asking to be killed, and I am not going to just stand and allow that! Get off!” He is looking at you, eyes wide, and still fazed, red mark growing on his cheek.

He is dumbfounded.

Even you are surprised at your outburst.

But he doesn’t move.

“Get off! Get off this motorcycle! Now!” You need to push him a little, but he finally gets off, kicking the stand to secure his machine up. You lead him to the bench and push him down on it.

“Call one of the riders!”

“What?” That’s a first thing he says, and his voice is smooth, but now it only makes your eye twitch.

“Don’t you have a phone? Call one of them. I am not going away, until someone comes to get you, so the sooner you call, the sooner we’ll be over with it.” He stares you in silence, in very stunned silence, but eventually it dawns on him, that you are not joking and he fishes his mobile from the inside pocket of his studded jacket. He hides nice, slender body under it, but now, you are focusing on his face, with eyebrows raised high, waiting for him to call somebody.

He does.

“Jongdae… I may have lost it. Yeah. Yeah. No, nothing…” He looks up at you, as if he was thinking, but quickly looks down.” I am at the Fifth.” He ends the call, and focuses on you. For the first time.”Someone will come. So. You can go.”

“I am not going anywhere until he comes.” You grumble and sit down on the bench. Your knees are red from the cold, and you are shaking your legs to warm yourself up. You hope that Jongdae, whoever that is, will come quickly.

“I am sorry…”

“Spare me your apologies.” You groan, knowing that you are not being nice, but you are still on edge. He hums and starts shuffling in his seat, but you are not looking at him. The first day bus comes and goes. Cars start to appear, few and far between.

Suddenly something heavy lands on your knees, and you look down at the studded jacket, covering your naked legs.

You look to the side, at your prisoner. He is wearing an elegant jacket and turtle-neck. It’s a sight to behold. Not only because it looks nice on him, but with biker’s boots and trousers, and with knowledge that this was hidden underneath a studded biker jackets, it’s quite ridiculous.

You don’t thank him.

Finally you hear a rumbling sound, and you look to your left, where they usually enter. You recognize the machine and immediately you stand up. You give the jacket back to the man, noticing that your knees are no longer red.

But without protection you are once again getting goose bumps.

The new biker comes to a smooth stop in more subtle manner, and you don’t stop yourself from shooting a pointed glare to the other biker.

He is looking at you.

The new one, quickly turns the engine off, and gets down from the machine. He immediately takes of his helmet, his hair mussed.

“Take care of him.” You say to him, and with one last pointed stare at the reckless rider, you take off.

It takes them much longer before they take off. You hear them leave from your room, and you stand next to the window, with your hands crossed on your chest, curious despite your anger.

They salute the street with their left hand up.

*

Rain. Rain can be welcomed. Rain can be yearned for. Rain can bring hope and it can revitalize the world. It can make green even more vivid, clear the air, rinse the streets. Rain can bring joy and smile. Joy of the young one playing in the puddle, smile of the older one listening to the sound of the drops drumming on the window sill. Rain can be colorful, light dispersing in the minute prisms, joining together to grace the surroundings with rainbow.

Today the rain brings sorrow and boredom. It makes the world outside your window gray, and unwelcoming. The scenery is dun and dull. Wet leaves are laying in the disgusting heaps on the street, their vibrant colors long forgotten. Streams of dirty, sewer-like water flow down the sidewalk, uncovering and bringing to light every piece of trash that was hidden.

That’s the rain that lulls you to sleep.

There is no energy in this monotonous sound, no thunders, no lightings, just heavy rain, covering the streets with its wistful curtain.

It’s Tuesday. You should be waiting for the bikers to appear, you should be trying to subdue your excitement, not apathy.

But rain means that they won’t come.

*

You feel it. The sound. You don’t hear it, not over the rhythmic drumming of the rain, but you feel it in your stomach, and you taste it in your throat.

It tastes like fear and bile.

You feel your heart in your throat, when you stand up, knowing what you are going to see yet, praying not to. Rain is heavy, and it clouds your vision, but in the streams you see a faint light, not enough to illuminate the way, and dark shadow.

_Why does he want to kill himself so badly?_

You don’t rush out like last time. You stand there, in the safety of your room, heater warming up your naked legs, hands cold from the draughty window. You follow him with your eyes, a work more straining than it’s worth. You don’t see him in the darkness, this time you can’t see whether his posture is good, or if he is making rookie mistakes on the motorcycle.

It doesn’t matter, when he is driving in this rain. He could have perfect technique and still kill himself.

You don’t want to see him fall, but you can’t bring yourself to stop watching. As if you owned him that. As if you believed someone should see him in his last moments. A legacy of sort.

But the tragedy doesn’t come, as if the Grim Reaper was asleep. As if he was teasing the biker, as if he was denying him the end of whatever sufferings he had in his life.

A sane person wouldn’t be out there, in the middle of the rain, at this God’s forsaken hour, riding a machine that could revolt at any moment.

But this moment isn’t coming. You are rooted in your spot, helplessly watching the front light of the machine, but during this time his line hasn’t faltered even once.

As if he also was denying himself the easy solution.

You don’t know how long you watch him, nor how long it takes him to stop. He halts at the bus stop, and gets off the bike. He stands there, then walks in small circles, all in the same heavy rain. He keeps looking at your blocks.

He can’t see you, you know that.

Just as you know that he is waiting out there. Waiting for you.

*

Next day brings even more rain, and it doesn’t bring even a shred of solace. The knowledge that he was waiting for you is scary and disturbing. Is he blaming you for stopping him last time? Is he going to blame you for not doing it last night? Why was he waiting?

Why is he disregarding his own life?

The sound of engine doesn’t bring you buzz and excitement anymore. When you hear one pass you, when you are out for lunch during your working hours, you nearly throw up. With a lump in your throat you cannot swallow anything else.

This night you won’t fall asleep, so you don’t even try. The monotonous drumming should work as a perfect lullaby, and yet it only works as an aberration. One you have to fight to discern the sounds outside.

Because for all your fear and anxiety, you wait for him. Curiosity is going to kill this cat.

 He arrives after midnight. You should be falling asleep already, tired from not having enough sleep, but you are alert, and you notice his arrival just when he passes the corner. You don’t see anything more than the light, so you shouldn’t be so sure that it’s him.

But you are.

You don’t know whether you recognize the sound of his motorcycle’s engine, or simply no one else would be doing laps in the rain at this hour, but you are sure that’s the one.

You didn’t even prepare for bed, still in the day clothes and make-up. You watch him for the first three laps, and then you sigh, and go to the hall.

You are more meticulous than usual when dressing up. Probably to give yourself a chance to back out.

You don’t.

With black umbrella in your hand, you go outside.

Your feet immediately drown in the stream flowing on the sidewalk, your fingers on the umbrella’s handle go stiff, and you sigh as you stuff your other hand into your pocket. Rain is heavily falling on the fabric of your umbrella, your jeans already getting wet.

At least there is no wind to try to take your protection out of your hand.

You reach the bus stop and stand under the lone street lamp. It’s the only place in which he’ll have a chance to notice you. You still throw around the thought that maybe he is a murderer, and you just waltzed into tiger’s den, but you can’t bring yourself to run away.

Even if you feel stupid, standing there, protecting yourself from the rain and light with your black umbrella, waiting for the reckless biker to notice you.

Which he does rather quickly. He passes you only once, and you gather he needs to make it to the end of the street to safely reduce the speed. Halting in the rain would be pretty deadly.

You watch him come back, and you wonder whether he’ll think about not splashing you, and to your surprise he does. The water from under his wheels doesn’t reach your feet (not that makes any difference), but the thoughtfulness is surprising.

He kills the engine, and suddenly the world around you get way more quiet. You didn’t even realize how loud it was, mistaking the rumble with sounds of the rain. He takes off the helmet, as if oblivious to rain. His hair is matted to his forehead even before it gets soaked in the rain. Which takes mere seconds. The water is flowing down his face, but it’s like he doesn’t feel it. He takes off his gloves and leaves them with his helmet on the seat, as he throws his leg over the back, to get off.

He looks threatening, with his height, his studded clothes, making him look way buffier than he should, and at the same time he looks pitiful, with drenched hair, pale, ill-looking skin, and hanged head.

He takes a tentative step in your direction, and you can’t just stand there and look, so you are the one to cross the distance between you, raising your umbrella, to fit him under. It maybe the fault of the shadow your umbrella made, but his eyes are impossibly dark, and his skin is glistening from the rain.

It’s like your hand has a brain on its own, and you get an out-of-body experience as you watch your free arm go up, and it wipes the drops of his cheek. He doesn’t move, so you clean the other one, and the forehead, removing excess water from your own fingers with a flick of the wrist.

He moves for the first time since he found a shelter under your umbrella, when you are done, and your hand goes down, to your side. His long, cold, pale fingers find it, and he brings it up once again, his other hand coming up to help. He holds your hand in his both, warming it up by touch and then he brings it to his lips, to warm it up with his breath.

It turns on the fly mechanism in your brain, but your feet won’t move. You feel trapped, as your mind is screaming at you to escape, and your body doesn’t cooperate.

Man, oblivious to your dilemma, moves your hand on his cheek, and keeps it there, snuggling his face into it, and it stops your internal fight. He looks soft, defenseless, broken.

“Can you… Could you help me?” His voice is barely audible over the rain. You more read the question from his lips, than you discern it from the voice. His breath  fans over the base of your hand, lips brushing the skin, touch nearly not there.

The lone car drives past you, it’s movement creating small wave that crashes with your feet. You grab the handle of the umbrella a little stronger.

You don’t see his face, when you look up, the features drowned in the shadow.

“I am drowning.”

You can’t help, but to see the irony of this statement. Few more days of rain like this and more than one homestead will be drowning. But you don’t dare say it aloud, since man’s pain seems to be deep, honest, and real. You don’t get to be judge whether someone needs help or they don’t. You are not obliged to give them help, but face to face with a person so bluntly asking is hard to say no.

“What is happening?” You ask, hoping that he will shed some light on his mental state. What has brought him back here? What makes him feel like drowning?

But it’s like he didn’t hear you, no word comes out of his mouth. You can see that his chest is heaving, but it may as well be your imagination, or you projecting your own body’s response onto him.

Your arm holding the umbrella starts to fall asleep, but you don’t dare to take your other hand out of his hold, as not to provoke him. One should do their best not to provoke an unstable person.

After, what feels like an eternity, he emits quiet, but painful sound, and falls forward. In the first second you think that he lost his consciousness and you panic, trying to catch him, but he just falls to his knees, his wet head finding its rest on your stomach.

You are taken by surprise, and you have no idea what to do. So you take the chance to change your hands on umbrella, excess of water suddenly dropping around you, but disappearing in the rain. You don’t have to check to know that his knees are deep in the water.

His back shakes and you realize that he is crying. The panic mode is back, what do you even do when a strange man is crying into your stomach? But the reflex take the reign, and you see your free hand fall on the back of his head, his hair wet under your fingers.

As if on the cue his hands come up and you feel the fabrics of your jacket pulling down, as he clenches his fingers on its sides. The strength of his hold tells you, how desperate he is.

What made him this desperate? What made him this broken?

It takes you a while until you realize that he is no longer shaking, nor he seems to be crying. You spent the whole time caressing his hair.

“You need to call for your friend.”You say, voice barely above the sound of rain.” To take you home.”

He doesn’t react. You are not sure whether he doesn’t hear you or if he just doesn’t care.

“You need to stand up. It’s hard, I know, but you cannot spend the rest of your life kneeling.” You talk to him in the shushed, calm voice, the one you would use to soothe a wounded animal. For all you know he might as well be. “Call your friend. Call Jongdae.”

You can feel him moving, pressure on your jacket lessening lightly, but he doesn’t stand up. He finds his phone, and with his forehead still on your stomach, he obediently calls.

You are still caressing his hair, when the person on the other end answers.

“Jongdae… Yes. Yes… Yes.” It sounds like this time Jongdae just knows what is happening, and this man is left only with confirming Jongdae’s speculation. Suddenly he raises his hand with phone still in it, and you realize that the caller wants to speak to you.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, but you take the phone.

“Yes?” You prompt, raising the device to your ear.

“Hello.” The voice on the other side of the line is clear, but rushed. “From what I understood you are the one that helped Yixing the last time, right?” So his name is Yixing. At least you know that. You confirm, and Jongdae is speaking again.” First of all, I want to thank you for that, and I want to thank you for taking care of him, now, but I really needed to speak to you without Yixing overhearing, so please listen to me.”

It doesn’t look good. You glance down, wondering whether he can hear it.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea…” You say carefully.

“Just walk away. He won’t hear.” You are surprised that your interlocutor without a pause guessed your problem.

“I can’t do that.” You say, locking the phone between your ear and your shoulder, to free your hand so you can go back to caressing Yixing’s head. You hope that will distract him enough not to focus on your conversation.

“Oh… Oh.” There is shuffling on the other side of the line, and when Jongdae speaks up again, his voice sounds more distant. He probably put you on the speaker. “It’s just… He is not himself. He has just lived through a tragedy, and he can’t get himself back on his feet. And have to ask you, it’s a sincere plea, please, don’t go out to him. Even if he asks, even if he comes back every night, please don’t. You won’t help him like that, and he will only grow attached. And… He can’t go through this again. He won’t manage.”

Your hand stills on the back of Yixing’s head. Every fiber in your body wants to ask what the tragedy was, but you know you can’t.

“That, if not his driving, would kill him.” Jongdae falls silence, and you know you should answer, but you can’t bring yourself to speak up. Somehow agreeing not to see Yixing again seems cruel.

“Please.” You hear the same word from two different sources. One is spoken directly to your ear (or more like through the line), and the other is whispered in your stomach. Suddenly there is a lump in your throat. Both of them seem desperate.

“Ok.” You answer aloud, not knowing to whom you are answering, and you finish the call. Yixing doesn’t move to take his phone back, so you stuff it in your pocket, finally straightening, feeling how bones in your neck snap back in place.

Jongdae comes in the car, and finds you in the same position. His jaw sets, as he walks over to you, with his own black umbrella, and his grip on Yixing shoulder is deadly.

You suppose he will jerk him upright, but in contrast with his strong hold, he is very delicate while coaxing Yixing up and away from you. He leads the taller man to his car, and helps him in, Yixing bending over in the car, head hanged, eyes unseeingly staring at his knees.

You stand in your spot, watching Jongdae pack the helmet and the gloves to his car, and you watch him, secure the motorcycle. Finally he comes over to you.

“Thank you.” He says shaking your hand. It’s manly and businesslike. He holds your hand longer that he should, as he stares in your eyes. “But, please, remember my words.”

And with that, they are off, Yixing not looking at you once, since his friend arrived.

The rain from under Jongdae car’s wheels reaches your feet, wetting the hem of your jeans.

*

You can’t forget about Yixing. How can one forget about person that defeated? You don’t know whether it’s your maternal instinct or something else, but you hope that he is alright. And at the same time you can’t stop wondering about his tragedy. It’s like reading book series, and ending on the second-to-last volume, with the last one still not released.

You wait for climax that is not coming.

Just like the man doesn’t come the next day. And a day after. And the next one as well. It keeps raining, and the sleep keeps evading you. You spent your nights wishing to fall asleep, trying to fall asleep, and jumping to your window every some machine is passing by your street.

It’s never him.

It stops raining on Monday, and it gives you immense relief. It means that they will come on Tuesday for their usual show.

They don’t.

You spend your whole night on the window sill, cold, but refusing to warm yourself up, waiting for the five that never came. You know what that means, but you don’t want to get around this thought.

Jongdae has probably changed their schedule, so Yixing wouldn’t appear in this neighborhood.

Somehow it’s way more cruel than it should be.

By next Tuesday you lose hope. You start to sleep again, but the sleep is shifty, ready to escape you at the barest sound of an engine. You realize it’s an obsession. It’s dangerous, and at this point it’s simply ill, but you can’t get the broken man out of your mind.

And what if he is getting better, and you are here, getting worse with every progressing day?

*

You wake up for the first time during this night. You started taking sleeping pills and you sleep with the earplugs. The chronic tiredness got better of you, and you need to fight it. You wearily stand up and go the toilet to relive your bladder.

As you walk back to your room you catch the movement on your street. It gives you a sudden rush of adrenaline, and you freeze at the window, straining your eyes in the darkness. There is a light on the street, single one, typical for a bike. You struggle to take your earplugs out, and then you hear it, unmistakable roar of motorcycle’s engine.

Yixing is back.

Yixing is back and this time he doesn’t go for a ride. He stops at the bus stop and gets off his motorcycle, puts his helmet on the mirror, throws his gloves inside it and turns around to face your blocks. He is standing tall, his head high as he waits. You know he is waiting, and you know who he is waiting for.

Your breathing gets more labored, as you feel the heavy weight in your chest. Your pulse is throbbing, you can hear its rumbling in your ears, and despite your long fight with this bad habit, your hand comes up and you bite your thumb, exhaling heavily.

You are afraid. You know literally nothing about the biker, you’ve never even exchanged names, and yet you started taking pills because of him. Because he was no longer there. You cannot deny that.

To make it worse, you can’t forget Jongdae’s words. That your presence is destructive for him. That Yixing cannot survive another… Another what? How can you try to protect him for something, when you don’t even know what that is.

And… Sole fact that you want to protect Yixing, from whatever it may be, tells you volumes about your own heart.

That, and only that, makes you turn away from the window. The fear of growing attached to somebody you know nothing about is too big. The terrifying notion of getting involved, of leaving your safe haven, makes you go back to your bed.

You bury yourself under the covers, shaky hand searching for the pills on the night stand. To your dismay, you realize that you left your plugs on the window sill. You don’t want to go near the window now. You can’t go. You won’t go. You are afraid of seeing him again, as it might be your trigger.

You take the pill with the easiness, with an air of well rehearsed act, as if you were taking a painkiller.

The truth be told, you are. It dulls the pain of your existence.

Pain of life without Yixing in it.

It horrifies you. That you are already at the point where you realize that you are already dependent. How deep you have to be to know it for a fact.

You lay in your bed, wide awake, wishing to fall asleep, wishing for the pill to do its magic, your consciousness mocking you, being hyper-active, trying to catch every sound coming from outside. Waiting for the moment when he decides to leave.

You tell yourself that it’s better this way, that it’s better for him. His friend wouldn’t wish him bad. His friend would know what is best for him. You do your best to convince yourself, turning from side to side, restless.

It’s an obsession.

And the fact that you don’t hear the engine outside your windows tells you, that you are not the only obsessive one.

Even with the help of the pill, you don’t manage to fall asleep. Your body and mind are awake, waiting for the sign that he has given up.

Which doesn’t come.

Instead your alarm goes off, and you sit up, realizing that you have laid wide awake till the morning came. You are tired, exhausted even, not only with the lack of sleep, but because of the turmoil this night has one again awaken. Your body is heavy when you stand up.

You tentatively, like a scarred animal, go to the window, walking too close to the wall to see the world outside, until you reach the sill.

Yixing is leaning on his motorcycle, head down, visibly tired. People on the bus stop eye him warily, but he doesn’t seem to notice them.

Your stomach revolts, and you quickly make your escape. You know that he cannot see you, but you feel exposed, vulnerable, and you simply, truly, want him to go. But until that happens…

You scramble for your phone, cowardly deciding to forgo walking out today.

You call in sick.

*

He leaves around 9am. Roar of engine tells you that, and you are out of the bed, even before you realize what you are doing. You watch him, safely hidden in your room, making sure that your body is not visible in the window. You don’t need to hide, but you cannot help yourself.

He leaves the bus stop, and easily joins the traffic. He is sure in his movements, the line of his motorcycle even and elegant, as he passes cars on his way.

He still remembers to salute the street.

*

You spend your day in bed, lacking strength needed to move, to go on with your life. You can’t stop asking yourself whether it was worth it. Whether that was the last time you’ve seen. Whether he’ll come again.

What will you do if he comes again?

What will you do if he _doesn’t_?

*

You stir awake. Your alarm’s display is illuminating your face with green light, and while checking the hour you realize that you must have finally fallen asleep. For the first time in days you did that without pills’ enhancement, your fatigue getting better of you. But as your wits start coming back to you, you grow restless, anxious, Yixing once again taking the reign of your mind.

The night is quiet, and you sigh, as you unconsciously check your phone. It’s Tuesday’s night. It shouldn’t be quiet, they should be here practicing. You wish to go back to the times when every Tuesday night you were sitting on your window sill, watching five bikers push their machines to the edge.

The times from before Yixing.

But they are probably riding somewhere else. Jongdae watching Yixing closely, making sure that he doesn’t go destroying himself, or, in other words, coming to you.

Who the hell Jongdae even is, to turn you into threat. Who the _hell_ he think he is?

Suddenly angry at Jongdae, another man you know nothing about, and the world in general, you stand up to go fetch yourself glass of water.

Yixing is there.

You double check, as you pass the window, but there is his motorcycle on the bus stop, and he is resting on the machine, head low, hand on his nape, studded jacket open. Once again he looks tired and resigned, and you don’t even see his face, but to you he has never looked better.

He never looks better than when he waits for you on this bus stop. Not that you ever saw him elsewhere, but it this moment, he looks just perfect.

Your digital clock changes to 3:17am, you look like a mess, you haven’t gone out the whole day, you couldn’t bring yourself to even comb your hair, but as soon as you see him, all caution, all doubts are out the doors.

And so are you, feet stuffed into your sneakers, laces flailing about, jacket unfastened, as you rush down the staircase, and onto the street.

You figure that in the cold air, you’d cool down, you’d grow hesitant. But you don’t. It serves only to cement your resolve, your body rushing hotfoot, now that you’ve decided. Now that you are ready to face your obsession head on.

Your mind is finally at peace. You don’t break your teeth anymore on Jongdae’s words, you are not scared anymore of the black figure, your personal boogie-man. It may be foolish, you may grow to regret it, but now, as the motorcycle grows bigger, you can’t bring yourself to care.

Yixing stirs, as the sound of your steps reaches him. But he doesn’t move, except for his hanged head turning slightly into your direction. This small move tells you, that he has been doing the same thing you did. He was listening for a sign.

And now your steps grow louder, they cannot be mistaken with any other sound now, and Yixing looks up.

You see his eyes, dark and deep, shining slightly in the lamp’s light. He blinks slowly, once, as if he was checking whether what he sees is reality. But you are very much real, and he moves away from his machine, straightening up, standing tall. His right hand is on the handle of his motorcycle, and you realize that it’s subconscious need to feel something familiar, way for him to gather his courage.

But when you finally reach the perimeter of lamp’s light, he moves away from his spot, he goes to face you, steps sure and elegant, just like when he rides his bike. Your combined courses are leading to a collision, but that’s what you were aiming for.

You cannot speed up anymore without breaking into run, but his steps get equally quick, not unusually so for a person that finally sees what they were waiting for, yearning for.

At least, that’s the case for you.

Five meters, three, two, one… His arms reach forward, and you go into his reach without any hesitation, hands sliding down his sides, onto his back, your frame fitting itself under his stiff, studded jacket, his own hands encircling your waist, bringing you even closer to him. Your forehead rests on his shoulder, top of your head pushing the dark fabric of his jacket off his body, but he doesn’t care, his fingers clenching on the fabrics of your own clothes.

“Let me help you.”

Words slurred into his sweater are surprisingly clear. They seem to cut the air so cold that it’s almost crispy. His fingers clench even tighter on your jacket, and you can hear the crunch of the fabrics. He sucks in a shaky, broken breath, his chest spasming against yours. You don’t know whether it’s his relief, or whether he is fighting his tears.

You don’t want to wait for a wet drops to fall on you to discover that he is crying, so you back away, raising your head, hands coming up to his jaw, and you, quite bluntly, bring his head up, to inspect whether he is crying.

He is not, but his eyes are red, and his stare is pleading, but you don’t know what he is pleading for. Probably help.

His hand leaves your back, and he grabs your wrist, but not to bring your arm down. It’s as if he was searching for warmth, human contact.

Once again you ask yourself what made him this way, what kind of tragedy did he live through, to be so devastated.

Looking into his eyes, not shining anymore, since his face is hidden in the shadow, you can see pain overbearing him, you can see anguish and grief sagging his shoulders and painting his complexion with sadness, highlighting wrinkles that should not be present on such young face.

His skin is dry, and you can see how puffy his eyes are. Tears, dehydration, sleepless nights, they all are written all over his skin.

You decide in a blink of an eye. You arms fall down, but he is still holding your wrist. It takes a little maneuver and you are holding his hand. It’s soft.

You lead him to his motorcycle. You take his helmet, and you take his gloves, and you stuff them inside his helmet. He stands next to you, motionless, with a vice-like grip on your hand. You are not about to tease him about that. If your hand is his life buoy then so be it.

“How do you secure it?” You ask, turning around, with his helmet hanging on your free wrist.

It’s like have woken him up. He lets your hand go, and he moves around his machine to secure it. You wait for him, and when he is done, he is back on your side, his hand confidently sliding back into the hold of your fingers.

He takes his helmet from you, and after that you take him home.

It’s not a thing you do without a thought, without a pang of fear. But you drown it in the sheer need to help. And in the overwhelming knowledge that you also cannot forget about him, the vivid memories of your sleepless nights a constant reminder.

Only in your hall you realize how horrible you look, the mirror hanging there so you can check yourself before walking out, serving as a bearer of bad news.

You couldn’t care less when you were running out to meet Yixing, but now you were regretting your hastiness and your disregard to your appearance.

But Yixing hasn’t said a word.

Actually since you went to him he hasn’t spoken up at all.

You lead him into your kitchen and he sits down at one of your chairs, now more slender without bulky studded jacket. He looks elegant in his black sweater with white, pressed collar visible from underneath.

He looks around your kitchen, but you can’t tell whether it’s curiosity, or it’s just a reflex. You decide not to dwell on that and focus on the easiest way to make somebody feel better. You put on the water for the tea, and excuse yourself for a second.

You disappear in the toilet, to quickly take care of your hair, at least. You are back in your kitchen just in time to pour boiling water into the cups. You feel better, cleaner,  having washed your face and having put your hair into a messy bun.

You notice that he brought one of his legs up, and he is sitting on his foot on the chair, and somehow you find that endearing, even if not really manly.

You place one cup in front of him, offering sugar, and you sit down across from him, with matching steaming cup in front of you.

His hands fall to the cup, stealing its warmth. He doesn’t look at you, nor he speaks up, and you are not going to be the first one to break the silence. You take a sip of your own tea, feeling pleasant warmth spreading through your body.

He mirrors you, taking a small sip of his own. You drink slowly, not even looking at him, as if afraid that your stare could frighten him, or making him uncomfortable.

You look at the window, watching the silent world outside. You sit like that for a long time, long enough for the skies to start turning grey, with a first glow of the morning appearing on the horizon. Your tea is long gone, and you decide that it may be a time to make a new one, so you turn back to him.

He is crying. Silently, with his face hidden in his hands. It’s mostly motionless, but you can tell from the spasm shaking his back, and from the wet lines on his wrists, shining in the artificial light from the single bulb illuminating your table.

You have no idea how long he has been crying, but his mug is half full.

You don’t have words to cheer him up, you can’t tell him that it will get better, you can’t offer an advice – as long as you don’t know what has happened to him, you are mostly useless.

Except for being a silent pillar of support.

Because you want to support him, you want to be there for him until he gets better. And maybe even after that.

So you stand up, your chair screeching on the tiles, and the sound is deafening, in your otherwise soundless kitchen. It startles you, but Yixing doesn’t react.

You walk around table, and you stand next to him, your hand falling on his nape, and you bring his head to your stomach, hugging him against your body.

You can hear a choked sound, as a stronger spasm hits him, but he turns in his seat, his hands clenching on your sides, his legs on both sides of yours, and he snuggles into your frame, his face in your abdomen. You quickly accommodate, one hand on his nape, warm and firm, the other one caressing his hair.

You don’t have to say a word, it seems like you being there calms him enough. He spasms few times more, his shoulder shaking, and his tears sipping through your shirt.

In the society where man’s tears are considered to be a transgression of a bound of decency, his tears seem to have a stronger impact. The mean more than yours would. At least in your mind.

He finally stops crying. You wait a while longer, just to be safe, and you reach for the box of tissues standing on the table, and you offer them to Yixing. He lets you go, and for the first time he looks embarrassed. He wipes his eyes, and dabs off the residue of his tears from his skin.

“Thank you.” It’s not the first time you hear his voice, but you have already forgotten how he sounds. Even know you know that it’s not his voice, since it’s hoarse and it breaks slightly on the last vowel.

You nod, suddenly unable to find your own voice.

So you move away, and once again boil water for the tea. Your kitchen is once again quiet, as you make new teas, putting dirty mugs in the sink.

When new tea is on the table, Yixing slowly sipping his, you sit down, and consider him for a second.

He looks better. Maybe he looks better because the cold winter sun is shining through your window, taking years off his face, or maybe he looks better because he cried his heart out, lessening the burden. But he looks better. Still pained and tired, but not agonized anymore.

So you decide to try your luck.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Your plea is quiet, and hesitant, and he looks up, hands encircling his mug protectively. He focuses on his beverage, watching the whirling steam.

He clears his throat, and you need to hide your surprise at the fact that he is preparing to talk to you. Is he going to tell you? A thing that Jongdae, who tried to keep you away from Yixing, didn’t even mention?

“I am...” He starts, and immediately falls silent. You don’t rush him, even though you can feeling your adrenaline rising. He bites his lip, but then assumes speaking, with a heavy sigh. ”Or maybe I was. I am a speedway racer.”

Your mind goes into a haze, as you try to find out what speedway is. You are not sure whether you guess correctly, but from what you remember it’s a kind of motorcycle races on a closed track. It’s not really popular in your circles, so you can’t be sure.

But if you are right, that would explain his prowess in riding a motorcycle.

“Few months ago, I…” His fingers clench around his mug. You want to hear what he is about to say, but you are afraid to.” I was involved in an accident. During the race.”

His voice starts to break again, and you can tell that he is fighting tears. That makes you uncomfortable and you can feel something heavy in your chest, but he is still talking, so you won’t make him stop.

“I lost my balance, and I needed to lay the motorcycle down, and I jumped off, but it was still running. It’s always like that! “He explodes suddenly, voice stronger and blaming, reproaching.” Motor is still running, the momentum too strong to stop on the spot! It’s a goddamn race, for fuck’s sake!”

He sags, as if his outburst consumed all of his energy. You can feel his sheer anger at the world, he feels guilty, but at the same time he is filled with rage.

“I wasn’t the first one to have an accident. My motorcycle wasn’t the first one to hit the rails.”

You already know what happened, so when he falls silent again, focusing on his pain and memories, you ask to be certain.

“Your motorcycle wasn’t the first one to hit the rails, but it was the first one to break through it?” He looks up from the table, eyes full of grief, pain and regret, filling with tears. “It was the first one to reach the audience.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be there. She wasn’t supposed to be there.” He whispers, tears once again flowing down his face. He is looking at you intently, pleading, begging you for something you cannot give him. “She wasn’t supposed to be there.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a horrible moment. Witnessing somebody struggling with a painful memory and past, impossible to atone for. Simply because there are no words to be said to such person. No way to comfort their mind, no secret method to calm their heart.

Yixing falls silent once again, and this silence is heavier than the one before – that one was at least disrupted with his crying. Now he is soundless and motionless, unseeing eyes staring into his mug.

And you don’t know how to break this silence.

So you sit there, stressed and uncomfortable, hoping that the fact he was able to get this off his chest will be comforting enough.

“Did you love her?”

The words are out of your mouth before you realize it. It’s like your body betrayed you, because you would have never said that had you had any control over your body! Such a stupid thing to say! You could have wondered, but nothing gives you the right to ask that!

Yixing looks up at you, and the pain in his face is palpable, and guilt hits you hard enough for your eyes to begin to water. He looks at you for maybe five seconds, before he looks down and takes a deep breath.

“Yes.” It’s quiet. It’s quiet, and nearly not there. If you wanted to, you could dismiss this answer as a murmur of electricity powering your fridge. But you saw his lips moving, and you saw his hand tightening on the ceramics, and you cannot overlook it.

And it breaks your heart.

He clears his throat and stands up, his chair scratching on the tiles. The sound is piercing and harsh in otherwise quiet kitchen.

“Thank you for the tea. I– I should get going.” He barely looks at you while he says that. You don’t stand up nor you say anything, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he walks out of the kitchen. 

What you are doing is rude. You know it is, but you can bring yourself to see him out. You are embarrassed and at the same time his story may be a little too much for you to process.

Sound after sound reaching your ears from the hall tells you the story: he puts on his shoes, he puts on his jacket, he takes his helmet, he does a quick work with your lock, he opens the doors. Doors close, but you are still listening, drawing your leg up, to rest it on the chair, your arms encircling it. You hear his steps outside, and then after a brief moment of silence, you hear his motor reviving. You listen to him driving away, as you stare mindlessly at his unfinished tea.

You stand up only when your alarm rings. You hastily grab his mug and you pour the tea down the drain. Your hand trembles and vessel lands in your sink, a part of the edge chipping off.

*

You can’t get it out of your head. How could you? It’s a true information overload, and the embarrassment from having asked about her being Yixing’s love only keeps making you think about it.

You don’t even know how you guessed that he loved that woman. It could have been a stranger, it should have been a stranger, but you have set up your own trap.

It hits you later during the day, when you try to focus on your charts and reports, that you can research the accident. It must have made news.

What better way to torture yourself than to see photos of the girl, he killed by accident. The girl he _loved._

It’s relatively easy to find it, even though “speedway accident” query spits back lots of irrelevant stuff like youtube videos and gifs, but when you change criteria to news – the first result has Yixing’s name. You hesitate, before you click on it.

You forgo the article itself, you skip by the video that starts playing by itself, your eyes only catching the moment when his front tire skips, and you scroll down.

The writer was of this article was merciless. Not because he blamed Yixing, or because he used harsh words to describe him. No, he was merciless, because his article featured wall photo from Yixing’s win: he still wearing his racing suit, with the golden medal haning on his neck, and flowers in his left hand, smiling brightly into camera, his other hand resting on the waist of one stunning girl.

You close the window, without scrolling down to make sure that this is the girl that _wasn’t supposed to be there._

You sit in your seat idly, until your neighbor from the next cubicle says goodbye to you when it’s time to go home. Only then you move, and start packing, the bright smile of that girl haunting your thoughts.

*

You have no way to contact him. It only now occurs to you, but that is a major problem. Because once again he disappears into thin air, and as once before you keep vigil at night waiting for his motorcycle’s engine to pierce the quiet night.

So many times you scold yourself for asking more than he was ready to give you, for fishing for information like one would fish for a juicy gossip. Gossip was the last thing on your mind, but to him it might have sounded differently. It probably did, seeing how he doesn’t comeback.

You promised to help him, yet you skillfully scared him away.

Just like Jongdae foresaw.

*

Days keep getting longer, night loses its minutes – you can feel spring in the air. It’s getting warmer, plants budding. You should be feeling energized, rejuvenated, just like the world around you. But your tiredness is getting better of you.

You know that you have fallen for that biker. You’ve fallen head over heels, for the quiet, still mysterious speedway racer…

… that has yet to appear in your life since the day he disappeared from your kitchen.

It’s been weeks.

It’s been weeks, and your friends started usual _intervention_ treatment. You haven’t told them a thing, but it’s not easy to see that something is wrong. You are always tired and you’ve lost weight. And of course the best remedy for that is making you go out and see world, checking with them café after café, restaurant after restaurant, club after club. You go, maybe not eagerly, but keen on leaving this motorcycle story behind you.

You cannot spend your life waiting for the day that may not even come.

But even there, between people, every motorcycle’s engine makes your head turn. Once or twice you could have sworn that you saw him passing by on his motorcycle – but the truth is: every black machine with biker clad in black seems like him to you.

But for one thing you are thankful: your friends don’t push you. They invite you out, and they make sure you come, but neither of them asks what is happening to you. They make sure that you have something to drink and/or eat, but they don’t make you join the conversation.

So you can sit with them, enjoying company, sipping on your beer, only half-heartedly focusing on their conversation – just like now. You are sitting in the salon style pub, with balcony on the second floor, where your table is situated, giving you a perfect view on what is happening below.

The pub is busy, no empty table inside, television turned on, displaying some football game. Patrons are loudly cheering, but you can’t be sure what teams are playing. Bartenders are working on their highest gear, crowd at the bar never ceasing.

Jongdae.

You sit up in your chair and check again – but you can’t be sure. When your eyes slid down the crowd his head was turned, to the side, but now that he was talking with the bartender you couldn’t be sure.

But your heart doesn’t let the thought that it might not be Jongdae pass through. It’s beating excitedly in your chest, and you shouldn’t be excited at the thought that you might be seeing Yixing’s friend that was against you meeting him, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Man at the bar gathers his four beers, and turns, and that indeed is Jongdae. He focuses on the glasses he is holding, not to spill them, and maneuvers through the crowd. You watch him intently, your heart coming up to your throat. You feel like throwing up, excited and nervous and anxious.

He is there. Yixing is sitting at the table with three other guys that you don’t recognize, but you guess that with Jongdae they form the clique that used to come to your neighborhood for weekly practice.

It takes you a mere second to decide and to stuff your pride – you announce to your table that it’s a loo time, and you stand up, and make your way downstairs.

Doubt catches you on the ground floor, your stuffed pride peering out from its confinement, but you cannot bring yourself to go back. There is a toilet sign in front of you, and that seems like a safe harbor, so you just push past their table, suddenly too scared to even glance at them, and you disappear into the toilet.

You lock yourself in the stall, annoyed and ashamed of yourself. You were so sure upstairs, so why are you backing up now?

To aggravate your annoyance even more, it takes you longer than it should to psyche yourself up for your task.

Which is simple. You just want to greet him. Nothing more. Simple “hello” will do.

So you go out, your eyes immediately finding his table, but to your dismay, Yixing is not there. Hard earned courage leaves you instantly. You won’t look for him. You won’t. You can’t.

So you just hang your head, not to look Jongdae in the eyes, as you pass the table, and you walk to your haven.

But you don’t even reach the stairs.

Because there is a hand closing on your wrist.

Because there is soft “ _excuse me”_  in your ear.

 

You won’t lie. There is a slight trepidation in your chest as you turn around. World swirls around you, colors blurring, and then you are face in face with Jongdae.

With a slight _oh_ leaving your mouth, you free your hand. Something in your eyes tells you that he catches it, and the reason behind the sound.

“Excuse me,” he repeats,” are you stalking _us?_ ”

He is polite and smiling, and even though he says _us_ , but you know who exactly he means. You take it as an insult Jongdae intended it to be.

“And why would I do that?” You ask, feigning polite surprise. Jongdae’s head tips to the side, and his eyes disappear in a bright smile. You realize that from a side it looks like a pleasant conversation, both of you smiling.

“See? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself. Why would you do that, but then again I remember that I saw you last week in restaurant, and two weeks earlier in that newly open coffee shop near War Memorial, and guess who am I seeing again tonight.” He is still smiling, but there is an edge to his smile. You open your mouth, but truth be told, you are not sure how to defend yourself. You’ve been there, because your friends try to take you out, but you understand the perspective. You also understand that at least twice you were in the same room as Yixing, and yet you didn’t saw him. Of course Jongdae sees you open your mouth, and he smoothly pushes you back, closer to staircase. “And barely second after you noticed me at the bar you came down, to parade next to our table. But of course there is a plausible explanation, am I right?”

Of course, the last bit has no explanation except, your need to see Yixing. Which doesn’t refute his accusations. So you try attack.

“Aren’t you a little bit obsessed? You see me everywhere even if I don’t see you. And excuse me for wanting to use bathroom. That is really stalky of me.” You say with dignified huff.

Jongdae assesses you for a longer while, and when he speaks up, his voice is breathier and lower.

“You need to understand, that yes, I am obsessed. Yixing is my best friend, and I will not let you destroy him. And you are doing your best to do just that, by disturbing his peace.” He stops, and then tucks stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “So, please, be a good girl, and _fuck off_.”

You are more than horrified. It’s not like Jongdae scares you in a normal sense – but his words make you feel dirty. There is something sleazy in a way he phrases his thoughts, and you don’t know what to make of them. You can feel the warmth creeping up your spine, but you are not really sure whether you are embarrassed or just angry.

“Enough.” At least this time it’s Yixing, and for a second you forget everything, finally seeing his fice up close. But as soon as you notice squinted eyes, and angry wrinkles on his face you realize that it’s a first time you see him like that. Jongdae’s hand falls on your shoulder as he tries to steer you up the stairs.

“Heard the man, go on.”

Yixing’s hand suddenly grabs Jongdae’s wrist, and men look at each other in silence. Whether they are communicating or trying out their strength – you don’t know, but you don’t want to be in the center of it.

You are a coward, and you are not going to deny that.

You just run away.

When you find your table, somebody throws a joke about how long it took you in the toilet, but that’s it. You smile, your mind broadcasting your confrontation with Jongdae on replay, torturing you with a knowledge that you had just run away from Yixing.

It lasts no more than five minutes (even though it feels like an eternity), because Yixing comes searching. You can’t even find the words that could describe your feelings when you see him on the second floor looking around. You know he is searching for you, but you can’t bring yourself to wave to him, or otherwise help him in his search.

He sees you anyway. And he comes, and you stare at him in silence, when he greets your friends. They look at him with a mild surprise and mild interest, clearly not knowing why he greets them. But you know.

He asks if he could steal you from them, and you have to bite your lip, because it seems unreal. There are scattered laughs, of course they are laughing, but you know that if you don’t move, your friends will force you into his hands.

You don’t give them a chance, grabbing your bag, and promising to contact them later. Some part of your brain tells you that you are being rude, ditching them like that, but your surroundings seems rushed, and you figure that you’ll apologize for any taken offences later.

Yixing leads you down the stairs, and past his table, where rather sullen looking Jongdae observes you as you emerge from the pub. It’s dark and air is rather chilly, but you don’t have time to think about this, because Yixing inhales quite loudly and starts walking down the alley not leaving you any choice except for going after him.

You are not sure what were you expecting, but it sure wasn’t rushed walk through city. You are in the heart of the city, hue for young people, and night is still quite young, so streets are crowded, making following your companion even harder. You try not to seem out of breath, looking around as if you were leisurely searching for next place to enter, and not trying not to lose guide.

On the other hand Yixing is not looking around. He seems to be focused on arriving to your destination as quickly as possible, whatever the destination might be. He doesn’t even flinch when quite rowdy group leaves nearby restaurant and one of the guys throws up on the street, just as he passes him.

You start to worry. Again. What’s new. Are you ever not worrying about Yixing? It should be tiring (and it is), but it doesn’t mean you can easily stop. Now you are worrying, because you don’t know how much he drank, it’s not like you exchanged any words today.

Was Jongdae right to try to push you away, because Yixing is losing it? Are you the one making him lose control? Are you the one in the wrong?

That thought leaves you nauseated. Even more than throwing-up-guy did. You surge forward, to finally catch Yixing, stop him from wherever he tries to go, keen on soothing him into more calmed state.

But he stops on his own.

It surprises you enough that you stop without any word – even though you prepared to say so much. You are looking at dark entrance to what looks like a park. You look around, briefly focusing on the busy street behind you, red and blue and yellow neon lights attacking your pupils. Behind you world is bright even in during night, loud and oozing with excitement.

World in front of you not so much.

You try to assess where you are by the streets you took. For a moment you nearly give yourself a panic attack, sure that you are in front of a cemetery – but you are not. It’s just a park. Dark, because it’s nighttime.

Yixing moves somewhere in the middle of your deep thinking, he is now sideways to you, also looking around as if he wasn’t sure where he was.

“I am sorry.” He says eventually. You nod, but you want to ask what he is apologizing for. For leading you like that? For Jongdae? For disappearing for such a long time? “I– I just needed to get away.”

You hum, trying to make it sound reassuring, because what could you possibly say? Suddenly you feel wind yanking at your clothes, but you realize that it’s been blowing long before you stopped – you just were too focused on following Yixing to notice it. It howls, leaves rustling and it’s a striking counterpoint to excited murmur behind you.

“I know that Jongdae wants to help me. And I know that I need help. I need help.” His voice is slowly trailing away as he repeats. The most horrible part is that in his words there is no substance. He doesn’t say anything you could grab on, anything that would make this situation approachable. Even now, not looking at you, but staring intently into the dark, he seems detached. He seems like he knows he should ask for help, but he doesn’t seem to realize how it would benefit him. His mind grabs the basic idea that he is broken and he can’t deal with his problems on his own, but his emotional state blocks him from understanding how deeply he is hurt.

Or so you begin to understand. And what Jongdae understood already.

“Help me.” He whispers. “I am drowning.” You heard it already, but then it concerned you. Now you realize that you should be scared. He turns to you, and you can’t even see his eyes in the dark, his hand grabs yours, as he already did. The other one lands on your nape, and you know what he is going for.

And you can’t stop him. You don’t stop him, even if you know you _should_. Not for him anymore, but for _you_.

But you don’t. As his cold lips touch yours for the first time you already know – that you’ve fallen for a guy that in his mental state is unable to love you.

And he doesn’t even know it.


	3. Chapter 3

Rain drops are dancing on your window sill. The sound is relentless, piercing, and it’s not your first time listening to this sound in the middle of the night.

You did it before, when Yixing was out of your reach, and you seem to be doing this now, even more often. There is a faint beep, and you look too your left – green screen of your digital clock shows four in the morning. You take a deep breath your breasts squeezing against your legs. You are sitting on your bed, legs drawn close, arms hugging them, listening to the rain.

There is a heavier exhale to your right.

That’s what changed.

You look over there, and you assess him. Not for the first time. Your eyes has long been accustomed to dark. Yixing’s hair is resting against the pillow, his mouth slightly open. His black digital watch is on night stand – it helps you keep track of time during those long night hours, beeping at every full hour.

You love him. You know you do, there is nothing in you that would deny that. And you know that he doesn’t love you back. Oh, he tries. Maybe he believes he does. He goes to sleep next to you, he wakes up next to you smiling – in a way that, for him, is loving – he calls you pet names, asks how was your day, brings groceries, cooks for you, fucks you into the night.

But his smile never reaches his eyes, he calls you all those cute names, but you are not sure if he even sees you as a recipient of those.

It’s hard to fight with a girl that is dead, prematurely in fact.

It’s hard to forget about her, for both of you. Every time he cooks, you ask yourself whether it was her favorite? Did he learn that from her? Did they cook together? Was this pet name for her? Is there back story for it?

Is he just coping what he did for her, recognizing that was true love, trying to put the same ways into this _damned_ relationship, believing that what he’s doing is right?

You subconsciously listen to the world outside, wanting to hear the sound of engine one more time. Wanting to go back to you pining after him, away from this prison you brought upon yourself. Before you got to know him, before he became real, before he became real burden.

He is proverbial millstone round your neck.

And you can’t even cut him off.

You are going to sink together.

*

Soft _fuck_ is muttered into scrambled eggs. You take a split second to decide, but you do turn to him. Yixing is cooking you breakfast, so you thought you’d reciprocate by making coffee for both of you. Your miniature kitchen is lighted by morning sun, brisk and rejuvenating. Rain stopped minutes before 5am, to make way for beautiful day ahead. Did you sleep at all?

Not really, but you hope for weather to be a metaphor of your life.

“What happened?” You ask softly, putting reassuring hand on his shoulder blade. You expect him to flinch, but he doesn’t – instead he looks over his shoulder, and he seems lost. He wasn’t expecting _you._

“Oh, nothing. I just… It’s nothing.” He says with a bright smile. Your hand drops.

“Right.” You say and turn back to coffee machine. _Right_.

He is lost in thought as you eat. When you cough a little, because some of your food went down the wrong pipe, his head snaps up.

“Oh. How did you sleep?” You hate that. You hate that he seems to think that he is obligated to make conversation with you. That he reflects himself when he realizes that he is not talking.

So you set your fork down.

“Are you going for a ride tonight?” You ask. There is a sudden focus in his eyes, a flicker of you interpret as spike of interest, but as soon as it appeared it’s gone, and he deflates once again.

“No, I don’t think so. Thank you for the meal.”

You don’t point out that he cooked.

He kisses your cheek goodbye.

You walk past his unused motorcycle as you walk to work.

*

Yixing’s hands are on your hips, his lips on your neck. Your head is thrown to the side, as you blankly stare at your clock. You exhale as he bites the jugular, you exhale as he squeezes your breast, you inhale as his fingers dig into your flesh.

It should be arousing, you should be gripping his shoulders, you should be dripping wet. But you aren’t. There is no flame, there is no chemistry.

And even he isn’t that deft not to pick it up. He rolls of you, and lands on his back next to you.

“You are quite quiet today.” He points out, and you turn your head around to look at him.

_Because I don’t have enough strength to fake._

You don’t say that.

You maybe imagining it, maybe you are projecting your own feelings, but you are sure he is relieved that he doesn’t have to fuck you.

Maybe.

Maybe you are just both tired.

“Why are we doing this?” You ask instead, and Yixing looks genuinely surprised.

“What do you mean? Sex? Our relationship?” So he knows. He has to realize that your relationship is wrong, if he asks that. “Because I love you.”

He throws it just like that. Without any real feelings behind, without any hesitation, it’s just another thing he believes he has to say to have his perfect relationship. How did you sleep, how was your day, I love you.

“Shouldn’t you be practicing with the guys? It’s Tuesday.” Another Tuesday he skips his riding. It’s months since you’ve been together, weeks since he moved in, and except for the night he brought his motorcycle to park in front of your building he didn’t touched it once.

“I don’t want to.” He responds, but he is not lifeless anymore. You can hear irritation in his voice.

“Are you going back to speedway racing?” You press anyway.

“The fuck you want?” He attacks you sitting up hastily. His nostrils are flared and he is staring at you with contempt. You sit up slowly, seeing him fired up like that for the first time.

“I am asking, because I thought it’s your job…”

“And I _fucking_ told you about my accident, didn’t I? What more you want? Do you think it’s easy to go back to racing after doing something like that? You think it’s easy to start the engine, and just _go for a ride_? Do you even realize…”

“Then seek help, for fuck’s sake!” You cut him off, furious. How dares he? You put up with him, you provide for him, you care for him, and yet… “I have no idea how that feels! I’m sorry, but I will probably never know. But you need to get your life together.”

“Are you even listening, woman?!”

“I am! I’ve been listening to you for about a year. You need to go to a therapist if you want to go back…”

“I am _not_ going to see a shrink!”

“Fine!” At this point you are both standing. It could be hilarious, because you are both naked, but it isn’t. You snatch your pajamas from the side of the bed. “Then don’t! But if you are not going back to racing, then go find a _damn_ job!”

Maybe he tries to say something more, maybe he doesn’t. You walk out the bedroom before he can.

But it’s not like you have a place to run away. It’s late, you apartment is small, and you are not going to sleep on the couch. You cry yourself to calmness in the bathroom. When you come back to bedroom light is off, and Yixing appears to be sleeping.

But he is not.

You slide under the covers, knowing that both of you will have motionless, sleepless night.

*

“How did you sleep?” He asks you in the morning, over scrambled eggs and coffee. He looks mildly interested, like he always is. You stare at him in silence, but Yixing seems adamant on forgetting what happened the night before. As if it never happened.

He is going to bottle this up, just like his accident, until he can’t take it anymore and he explodes.

But you can’t go on like that. Even if he stares at you intently, willing you to answer, to ignore your fight.

“I couldn’t fall asleep after out discussion.” You say sticking your chin forward. Yes, you are confronting him.

His face falls.

“Do you have to start so early in the morning?” He asks, visibly tired. You sputter.

“Start what? Start _what_?” He rolls his eyes at you. Rolls. His. Eyes. “I am asking, because I _am_ concerned. I love you, and I want to see you doing things that you love… _What?_ ”

He is not listening to you. He just intently stares at you, nostrils flared and eyes shining weirdly.

“It’s your first time, you know? It’s your first time to say that you love me.” He says quietly.

“Really?” It does seem so. From the beginning he was so loose with that particular phrase that you refused to say it back. Even if it was true. It was your fight to keep some balance in the relationship – with his lack of real feelings for you, you didn’t want to give him so much power over you.

And now you did.

He grabs your hand, and squeezes it and it doesn’t seem as a such bad thing now.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s suffocating. Your whole life is reduced to your small apartment, which you share with a guy that is unable to love you, you are walking on eggshells in your own apartment.

After you told him that you love him for the first time he changed. You can’t yet tell if the change was for better or for worse, but he changed. He became more relaxed and at the same time more giddy – you know that it doesn’t make any sense, but it is what it is. As if knowledge that you love him made it easier for him to settle with you, reassuring him that you are not going to disappear.

 _Like_ she _did._

At the same time, the same knowledge made him more irritable. Any mention of his friends, his job, the accident, anything really from the life before you made him angry – and he didn’t stop himself in his anger.

It wasn’t that he was hurting you, no. Not physically at least. His body remembered love well enough to understand that in love there is no place for hands raising – but every time you tried to talk about anything other than you and _your_ life, he would punish you, by not speaking with you or screaming at you at the top of his lungs.

But he never left the apartment. He bunkered himself off in this small space, and the only time you breathed freely was the moment you left the apartment.

Just like now.

The bar is busy and buzzing. After all those months it’s foreign to you, you have already forgotten what it means to go out – and even know you are not here to have fun. You push through the drunken crowd, your heels crushing occasional plastic cup or sliding on the spilled beer. Your goal is not the bar, but rather a table on the other side of the dancing floor, the once you noticed as soon you entered.

You slide into the booth as soon as you reach it, and you focus on the man sitting in front of you. He asses you coldly, but you can’t really blame him for that, and you give him a moment to scan a crowd.

“He is not coming.” You say as a way of greeting, and Jongdae takes a gulp of his beer, and stands up.

“Obviously.” He says, and it’s intended to hurt you. It does.

“I need to talk to you.” You say, entangling your fingers on top of the sticky table. Jongdae laughs incredulous and stands up.

“We… Have nothing to talk about.” He says, stressing _we_.

You still can’t blame him for that – in the end you are the one to blame for his best friend ditching him. But you desperately need his help.

“I know.” You say, ready to hit your chest.” I know, but.. I need your help. _He_ needs your help.” You look him in the eyes pleadingly, but also daringly. You may not like him, but you both mean well.

He sits down slowly, observing you warily.

“ _He_ haven’t contacted me for months.” He says accusingly, and you only nod. “Until, what I thought, yesterday, but it was you, wasn’t it?”

You just nod, because that’s obvious, isn’t it? You took Yixing’s phone yesterday when he went to take a shower and invited Jongdae out pretending to be him. After that you deleted the messages, but weren’t feeling guilty at all.

“He doesn’t live the apartment, he doesn’t ride, he isn’t living.” You say urgently, because you’ve waited so long to say that out loud, to diagnose him.

You know what it is. But you can’t push this one word through your throat.

“What do you want me to about that?” Jongdae is prickly, but you will just grit your teeth and take it. He did try to warn you, but you were stupid enough to ignore it, so withstanding his altitude is the least you can do.

You drop your bold stance, and just look at him pleadingly.

“Help him. _Please._ ” He is looking at you with contempt, and you can’t look back at him. “You are the only one he will listen to.”

“Oh, really, now? Like you listened?” He is still mocking you, and you just hang your head – if that is your atonement then so be it. You say nothing, and that seems to calm Jongdae down. “But you can’t help person that doesn’t want help.”

“He needs you.” You say, not really answering, and that seems to finally break through. Or maybe he’s decided that you had enough of punishment.

“I… I will try.” He finally says, and that’s all you needed to hear.

*

“What are you doing?” The _woman_ is on the tip of his tongue, you know that, you can hear it in his voice. You sink a little bit in yourself, feeling hounded, but you don’t stop putting out his riding gear. In mere seconds there is a hand on your shoulder jerking you back and away from the helmet, and you are faced with furious Yixing. “I’ve asked what were you doing!”

His handsome face is contorted and it hurts you to see it like this, but you shake his hand off and turn back.

“You are going riding today.” You say sternly, and that seems to shut him up for a second, in total disbelief.

“I’m not going anyway, put that away!” He says, grabbing his jacket. You sense that, and you grab it as well, jerking it – making him let it go.

“Jongdae will be there and you are going _riding_.” You say, not leaving any room for questioning there. But Yixing doesn’t seem like he got the memo.

“Why is Jongdae coming.” It’s a statement, but you answer it anyway.

“I called for him, because I can’t stand your sorry ass staying all day inside, to scared to do what you love the most!” You don’t know when you started to shout, but you did, all pent up emotions leaving you in one emotional wave.

He is lost for words, you can see him scrambling, but you can’t let him put himself back together, and you just throw his clothes on him. In his dumbfounded state he grabs them, and you walk out from the bedroom – hoping that it’s a sign clear enough for him to change.

It takes all your strength to do that. Your legs are shaking and you rest against a wall, when you are out of his sight, and you feels so powerless, even though you try to act as if you were strong and in control.

Because when Yixing is in control, both your and his life seems to be falling apart. You need to step up, both for him and for _you_.

You move away from the wall when you hear the sound of motorcycle, and you look out of the window, to confirm if it’s Jongdae. It is, who else would that be?

So you take a deep breath, and go back to bedroom, where Yixing _didn’t_ change.

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice only a little bit shy of scolding. He looks at you, and you recognize the tale telling signs of him getting angry. You can’t let him talk over you, you can’t let him get out of it. You will make him do that even if it’s going to be the last thing you do. “Jongdae is there, change yourself.”

“I am not going.” He says defiantly, throwing all his gear on the floor in a really childish fit. You grab the garment closest to you, and you throw it at him, equally angry.

“Oh, yes, you are! You are going to change now, you are going to mount that _fucking_ bike, and you are going for a ride with your _friend!_ ” He opens his mouth, of course he does. In his condition, he is going to do all he can to keep the status quo. But you can’t live like that anymore, you really can’t. And if he can’t change, you are the one that will. “Dress up, or you can pack your bags!”

It reverberates in the suddenly quiet room. He looks at you hurt, and once again scared, because you know realize that he was scared, back when you were just starting to date.

“What?” He asks quietly.

“You’ve heard me. Either you go with them, or you can just move out. I can’t stand living with you anymore.” You are hurting him, and it pains you so _fucking_ much. It burns you, and it leaves the bile-taste in your mouth, making you feel nauseated, especially when you see betrayal with his eyes.

There is a sound of the bell, and you leave the room once again to open doors for Jongdae. He is looking unsure when you see him, but he schools himself before he enters the apartment. You say nothing, and point him to where Yixing is.

He takes off his shoes, and he grits his teeth, and disappears into your bedroom, closing the doors behind himself.

They talk. You can hear them through the wall, and you escape to the kitchen not to listen to them, you don’t want to hear it. They talk, and then they start to scream. They are shouting, and it feels horrible, just like witnessing your parents fight. You hum to yourself, having already put on music on your earphones, but still hearing them. You can hear steps, and sometimes loud cracking noises, and you hug yourself, telling yourself that it’s all for Yixing’s good.

He needs another shock to be awaken from his stupor.

That’s what you need to believe.

That’s what you have no choice but to believe in.


	5. Chapter 5

Jongdae emerges from your bedroom. _Emerge_ is a strangely fitting word, since he looks tired and disheveled, red splatters on his face telling all about his anger. He doesn’t look like he knows how long he’s been inside, and what really happened there, as if he was coming out of a trance. His eyes focuses on you, and he says nor shows anything, but he turns around, hand raising to point ad Yixing still hidden.

“You _gave_ your word.” It’s all that Jongdae says, and he walks past you, careful not to brush against you, and he just leaves the apartment. You are in the dark as to what have just happened, but the knowledge that they reached some kind of consensus allows you to hope.

It’s still shy and small, but nonetheless that is a step in right direction.

You take a tentative step, broadening your view into the other room, where you see Yixing sitting on the bed. You looking at him stirs him, and he looks up, his jaw setting.

It’s not his usual anger, but rather newly found will.

You don’t know what Jongdae said to him, but it seems like a step in right direction. Even though you feel like it might be a step forward that will be followed by three steps back. You simply can’t trust him. Not anymore. And you definitely can’t trust yourself around him. Not anymore.

“I– “ His voice is scratchy and he stops to clear his voice. You scan the room, noticing how his riding gear is on the floor, how few of your books have fallen far from their place on the shelves, giving away that it wasn’t a really peaceful conversation. Your eyes snap back to Yixing when you hear his voice again. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” You say warily, and he stands up with a sigh, and walks past you, steps stiff. He also passes you without brushing you, and uneasiness settles in your gut. You will your anxiousness away, and follow him to the kitchen.

You sit down on the chair, looking at him as he prepares the tea. He has his back turned to you, silently watching kettle. The only sound you hear is slowly boiling water. It makes you realize that you didn’t hear Jongdae drive away, and it gives you a surge of fear.

Deep, cold, disarming fear.

Minute later the cup is in front of you, steaming, white-translucent ribbons escaping under the ceiling, disappearing halfway. Yixing sits down across from you, hand curling around matching cup. He doesn’t look you in the face, and it bring back echoes of his first visit in your apartment.

Just like then you are not going to break the silence first, you know Yixing well enough to realize that nothing will make him hurry up, so there is nothing for you to do, except for waiting.

And truth be told, your heart is in your throat, and you simply can’t say a word, fearing that you’d cry if you tried.

You should be happy that Yixing is finally going to do something about his crippling (crippling both you and him) depression, but you suspect that it’s not going to be good news for you. Jongdae still being around tells you so.

Yixing puts his cup down loudly, and you can see his knuckles getting white from the how desperately he is holding this _damn_ cup.

“I don’t love you.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He doesn’t even try. Maybe he can’t, but he is still ripping your heart out of your chest.

You knew that from the moment he kissed you, you knew that every time he told you that he _did_. But you so desperately wanted to believe him, when your mind told you otherwise. You wanted him to live up to his words, to take responsibility for making you like that, for putting you in this toxic relationship – you wanted to believe that one day he will he will simply _love_ you. Not as a replacement for _that_ girl nor out of habit. You believed that one day his _I love you_ would have a real meaning.

Which obviously never wasn’t to happen.

And it hurts. It hurts so much, but when you look up at his face, he look relieved. He looks like a person that was drowning and was miraculously rescued, taking greedy breaths of air. There are signs of anxiousness on his face, and to your rage you realize that he wishes for you not to cry. He awaits for your reaction, wanting you to simply let him go.

It freezes you and it hurts you even more. You want to cry and wail, because this man just broke your heart – and he probably wanted to do that for some time now, but he didn’t have the balls. It’s so easy to realize that it’s Jongdae who talked him into that.

And you can’t blame him.

At least you got your break up – otherwise there is no saying that Yixing wouldn’t break one day and just disappear from your life, simply ghosting you.

You realize that he is a broken man, and that he is probably ill. Mental illness, is just that, an illness. But it doesn’t mean that in this moment you don’t want to see him hurt. You do. You want him to suffer, as much as you suffered.

But you can’t say that you are a woman that was scorned, and you can bring yourself to unleash fury upon Yixing, so you say nothing.

“I am sorry.” He says, as an afterthought, clearly at loss with your silence. He expected you to make a scene. To cry, or to rage, or whatever, but he didn’t expect your indifference.

Because you are not indifferent – you are hurting and you await a moment in which you’d be allowed to cry your eyes out, but you are going to let him go gracefully.

His apology is like salt on your wounds. His apology means he knows how wrong he was, what sins he has committed, and you cannot stand sitting in front of him.

He is going to leave anyway.

“Tomorrow you have to be gone.” You say, and your voice scares you. It’s not cold, nor shaky, it’s just… Calm.

But you are not calm. You are nowhere being calm.

And yet you calmly stand up, _I don’t love you_ ringing in your eyes, and you don’t allow your eyes to linger on Yixing – you don’t want his relief to get to you, and you walk out of the kitchen, not knowing where you are going.

You stop in front of your front doors, lost, but the prospect of seeing Yixing pack his things drives you to put your shoes on, grab your jacket and the keys.

Jongdae is sitting on the stairs, when you open the door. He stands up, and tries to tell you something, but your cold stare stops him in his tracks.

It’s not his fault, and you know that, but you can’t stop yourself from blaming him. At this point you are going to blame everybody.

Everybody but your sorry ass.

Outside you realize you have nowhere to go, but since you are not going back into the apartment, you keep walking ahead. You don’t know for how long you wander aimlessly, but when you finally see a bench you sit down on it, feeling both powerless and hopeless.

Instinctively you reach for your phone, and scroll through your contacts, for the first time realizing how long it’s been since you contacted your friends. Dates next to last messages are screaming into your face how horrible person you’ve been for last months. Ever since you jumped head first in that damned relationship.

Your pride tells you not to do anything, but you are miserable, and you are hurting, and you vow to be a better person in the future, when you’ll get over this, and you hit call.

“Yes…?” The voice that answer after few signals is sleepy, and confused, and only now you realize how late it is, and how long it’s been since you’ve heard this voice. But friend in need is a friend in need, and this one doesn’t disappoint. “Girl, is everything ok?”

It’s not.

It’s not and you break out crying into the phone, unable to say a word.

*

You are not alone coming back home. Your friend not only came for you, but comforted you all night, realizing that cursing Yixing isn’t the way to go, while doing it that. Angel, not human.

And just like that, all your squad was called for support, and no one attacked you, and no one said anything when you refuse to talk shit about Yixing.

Apartment was empty and cleaned out. They were thorough. You wondered whether he also called the rest of his squad for help. His things were all gone, and it made your place look naked.

You sat down on your bed, that for last few months you shared with him, and for an umpteen time you broke down crying.


	6. Chapter 6

Nothing keeps you up at night. Nothing wakes you up at wee hours of the morning. Nothing makes your heart speed up.

That should be considered an improvement, but you know it’s not – and you fully understand the reason. You loved him. You loved him so much, that you were ready to sacrifice yourself for him, that you stepped up and did what the old rhyme says.

You’ve let him go.

During those first weeks after he disappeared from your life you questioned that decision so many times. Every time something reminded you of him. And after such a long time everything did. Silver ribbons of steam over tea. Raindrops on the window sill. Distant sound of engine.

But day after day it all faded away. Slowly, but surely, you’ve begun to breathe again. Your bed no longer smelled of him (it never actually did – that was the first thing that you did after coming back to empty apartment – washing the sheets), you couldn’t imagine his hair on the pillows anymore.

Only sometimes when motorcycle rushes past you on the street, you can feel the familiar pang in your chest. You quash it immediately, but it doesn’t quash curiosity. Is he riding again? Is he back on track?

You don’t google him. Not anymore. You did, anxiously. Waiting for one day when there would be news of him being back in the world of speedway racing. Something that would prove that you did a right thing. But the news never came.

Never again did you hear roar of engines on the street under your apartment. You miss that as well. Not because of _him_. Or at least not only. You miss the times when sound of the engine meant only weekly show. It meant mystery personified by those late-night riders, and not misery of one that disappeared.

But apart from that your life was back on track. You did what every heartbroken girl does – after a period of misery, you’ve put all your strength into improving yourself. That meant doing better at work, earning yourself a promotion, picking up gym, changing hairstyle.

It was cliché and by the book.

But it worked.

*

“I so do hope you are buying me coffee later,” whines your friend from behind the curtain and you laugh, pulling your hair out from under the dress you are trying on. You check yourself out in the mirror, deciding that you actually look good in it.

“I promise!” You answer, and drag the curtain to open your fitting room to her eyes. She is sprawled on top of the sofa, looking the part of a bored to death boyfriend. You turn around to show her the dress.

“Yeah, you ass looks amazing.” She says as if that was the most important part. You roll your eyes at her, and check your rear in the mirror. Ok, so it does look good. “My vote is on this one.”

“Because you want to go out.” You accuse, but at the same time you can understand. You dragged her here in the morning, and lunch time was already upon you. But you don’t like rushing through buying clothes, especially when you are buying something that is not exactly indispensable for your wardrobe, but just something you really want to have.

“Guilty as charged.” She admits, as you close the curtain. “But your ass does look amazing.”

“Sure.”

You buy the dress, and your friend laughs at you the whole time you wait in the queue. But nonetheless you walk out of the shop feeling satisfied. Mall is moderately busy – it’s weekend, but only lunch time, so there are people, but it’s not yet crowded. That’s why you have no problem with finding an empty table in the second floor coffee shop with the view on ground floor display space. Photo wall is already waiting, stage and table ready, and it looks like there is going to be some kind of meet&greet.

You pay not only for the coffee, but you also treat her to piece of meringue cake (which is amazing). The two of you have so much to discuss that for a longer while you forget about outside world – juicy gossip is the only kind of gossip you believe in.

It’s only when you hear a sudden uproar that you are brought back to the real world. Both of you look down on the ground floor, where by now a lot of people have gathered and the roar was the sound of them greeting the main character of the supposed meet&greet.

It’s only then when you realize that just in front of the stage, in front of plastic chairs now filled with people there is a nice sleek motorbike, looking a notch too square for usual one. It’s frame is covered with sponsors’ names and you realize you’ve seen this kind of motorbike before.

Your heart stops for a second, and you jerk to find the person entering the stage – because that is a speedway motorcycle. You localize person dressed in padded riding clothes, jacket with sponsors’ name on it further broadening person’s shoulders.

You deflate in your seat.

It’s a familiar face. Very much so. But it’s not Yixing.

It’s Jongdae.

Your friend is craning her neck to see what got your attention, and you wave dismissively, bringing back the topic that you were last on.  You are not sure what you are feeling, that’s why you want to ignore the situation.

It’s so weird to see one of them after such a long time, and in the context of their job. Actually you are not even sure if you knew Jongdae was speedway racer. You don’t remember getting this information – you are not even sure if you ever assumed that. In your world Jongdae was groundless object floating around Yixing.

It’s so weird that you didn’t even know from where Yixing knows his friends.

You realize that seeing Jongdae from so far away is still reliving. It means that you didn’t imagine the whole thing.

You try not to look, but your eyes somehow gravitate towards him, sitting at the table, answering questions. You really want to go down, to grab his hand and ask how is Yixing doing. But you also want to go out of the building and never see him again just as much.

In the end you find yourself dragging your friend two stories down, to stand in the back of the crowd to listen to Jongdae.

Seems like those past months were gracious to him. He is smiling, and this whole set-up tells you that he had successful… Period? Season? Well, people did come to see him, at the very least.

Or maybe speedway racing is getting more popular that you’d think.

“Why are we even here?” Asks your friend and it’s so unexpected that you jump. She looks so perplexed that you immediately feel embarrassed.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just…” You don’t have a slightest idea what to say. So you awkwardly push her in the direction of the nearest entrance, and you follow her, deciding that some things are better left unmentioned.

She is already chatting freely, by the time you leave the crowd behind you, and as you hear the fading voice of Jongdae talking about races, future plans and the team, you realize how far you’ve come.

And yet you haven’t moved an inch.

*

“How about going back to the dating stage?” You raise your eyes to look at your coworker. It’s a good one, but you are not close enough for you to explain why it’s not yet the time, so you just smile and say nothing. “Because I know a guy that would be really interested in meeting you…?”

Great. A blind date. Are you really looking that desperate? Is single such a horrible thing to be that your coworker thinks that he needs to set you up to brighten your life?

But you don’t let your first reaction define you, so after a quick calming inhale, you decide to take advice of every women magazine and just take it head on.

“Is he hot?”

*

Armed with photo, number and more than a few exchanged messages you find yourself out in the city (wearing that dress you bought the day you saw Jongdae) waiting for your date to arrive. You hate making people wait for you, so you are too early, and as not to wait awkwardly outside you take a shelter in the nearest café. There with paper cup you sit in front of the window, scrolling down your feed, and checking if he’s there yet.

You are excited and anxious. You know it’s not like you’ll like him, and it’s not like he’s gonna be the one, but you are excited to be finally moving in what you decide is the right direction.

Except he doesn’t come, and fifteen minutes after scheduled time he calls to apologize and reschedule. You remind yourself that things like that happen, and you decide that you can reschedule. But you are left like that in the city, dressed up and with nothing to do – and going back home would be sad.

You toss around a thought of calling your friends, but you told them all about the blind date, and you don’t feel like explaining to them that you got stood up – so with the cup in your hand you go outside.

Sun is still high on the sky, but definitely inching into the late afternoon. You walk down the street, curiously looking around – you rarely walk like that, actually paying attention to your surroundings. You find a off-chain store with cute and funny plushies and you take a mental note of it for future present shopping.

You buy yourself a snack at the street vendor, realizing that you might as well take yourself out on the date, and just treat yourself. You sit in the park watching ducks on the lake and joggers. You even share the crumbs of your pastry with pigeons (even though it shouldn’t be done). You like your city and you always thought that you know it well, but it turns out – it has a lot of secrets you could learn.

You hear a distant sounds of engines and since it’s a you-day, you let yourself walk in the direction of the sound. Soon enough roar grows louder and park’s trees clear to show you a stadium. Your heart thumps louder in your chest, when you realize it’s a speedway stadium.

You knew your city has one, it’s obvious with Yixing’s job (and Jongdae’s), but you didn’t even know where it was. It wasn’t one of those great 50k seats type of stadium. It’s definitely not as tall, and looks quite brusque, but the parking lot is filled to the brim and people are crowding at the entrance, slowly sipping in. You can hear the usual chatter of this kind of place.

You see Yixing.

Or at least his face.

He is shown on the massive screen above the entrance, wearing his team’s uniform, helmet under his arm, with Jongdae and two other at their side. On the other half of the screen you can see a four wearing different uniforms, and it seems like they are having a match tonight.

You are stoked. You haven’t realized how much you needed Yixing to be ok. That was the whole idea behind letting him go. For him to get his life on track.

But it still hurts – to see him, and to see him successful without you.

So you do what would any girl in your position do.

You go to the ticketing booth to check whether they still have tickets for tonight game and it’s as if universe is trying to tell you something, so you buy – not knowing what to expect.

You find your seat feeling lost in the crowd. You are late so you’ve skipped the beginning, and truth be told you have no idea what you are watching.

There are currently 4 motorcycles on the track, each wearing different color helmet, red, blue, white, yellow, but judging from the uniforms they are pairs from different teams. You are quickly overwhelmed by the roar of engines and the crowd, and you regret coming.

But against your better judgement the excitement of the venue seems to be getting to you as well, as you find yourself swayed with crowds emotions. You react with them, not really knowing why they cheer or why they gasp.

One race finishes next starts, and you realize that though racers change, there only small number of iterations. You see 3 races before there is a break. You look around wanting to know if it’s finished, and smiling lady next to you informs you that it’s only 4th heap.

Your lack of knowledge must have shown, because she turns around to you and grabs your ticket, where you have a small table waiting to be filled with numbers. She starts quickly explaining to you that match has fifteen rounds, each called heat, and winner of every round get awarded three points, first runner-up two, and third one, while loser gets nothing. Points are added together at the end, after all the heaps, but you can keep the check with the table.

She is nice and patient, and clearly happy to explain, maybe wanting to turn you into a fan. So you listen to her while she explains the rules, rather enjoying it.

“Oh, they are about to start fifth heat.” She says after a few minutes and you turn to the track. And yes, judge turned orange light on, and four riders appeared on the track, coming to their respective gates.

“Uh… Could you please tell me which one is Zhang Yixing?” You ask her, and the smile you get is blinding.

“Oh, so you came to watch our Yixing! Good to see him back on track, isn’t it? It took him two years, but then again after what happened… There he is! Blue helmet, with number 10. His record in this season is actually quite good. Not _as_ good as Jongdae’s but with two of them back on track we can start thinking seriously about championships…” She babbles on, but it all fades into the background sound when you focus on Yixing.

It’s not like you can _really_ see him. He is completely shielded from the world, but you actually prefer it that way. It’s safer. You watch him look to the side in his gate, engine reviving, and you watch him when they start.

You can’t explain it, but you feel as if you recognized his riding style. The way he picks the best line to follow on the first curve, the way he lays down the machine when he goes into next curve, and you watch him hypnotized as he rides his four laps.

It takes no longer than a minute, but it still burns a hole in your chest.

 _Are you that good_ without _me?_

*

The last _heat_ is finished midst loud cheering from the home team supporters. The woman tells you excitedly that not only their team won, but Jongdae and Yixing scored respectively first and second place.

You looked around to check if that means the end to which your neighbor helpfully supplied:

“They still have to receive their prizes and there is usually end of the race interview.”

You smiled to her, and sunk deeper in your seat. Your anxiousness levels were rising up, you were slowly coming down from race-induced-high and you slowly started to realize what you’ve done.

It hits you really hard the moment you see Yixing on the screen without his helmet. He is smiling, clearly pumped, with face wet and hair mussed. You see him hug Jongdae, who looks similar only more smug, and you watch the prizing ceremony with a hollow chest and having to remind yourself that you need to breathe.

Yixing looks gorgeous. Happy. Healthy. Living. Alive.

Of course it’s good, it’s like he should be. But at the same time he is a little bit _too_ happy. _Too_ healthy. _Too_ alive.

Without you.

“So, Yixing, tell us how it feels to be back on track?” It’s interview time, and Yixing is standing with Jongdae and two other members in front of the photo wall, with trophies and/or flowers in their hands. He looks to Jongdae with his small, embarrassed smile, and you recognize it.

“Oh, good. Of course it’s good.” He says and laughs, Jongdae joining in, and patting his back with _quite_ enthusiasm.

“This break… Was what you needed?” You can feel that everybody knows. About Yixing’s tragedy. It was private nightmare, that was public from the beginning. In the end probably half of the people on the bleachers saw it happened.

Once again Yixing looks to Jongdae, and it’s clear that he seeks support. He clears his throat.

“Yes.” He says and his voice breaks a little. It’s suffocating to watch, especially since thousands of people watch it as well – you have to remind yourself that you are no longer part of his life. That you are not supposed to help him. You shouldn’t. You see him gather his strength.” Yes, actually, I would like to say few words, because I think it’s important to… Share things like that. After what happened I was in… A really low point of my life. “He takes a deep breath, and you consider walking out. You are not sure if you’ll be able to listen to that.

But you can’t move your limbs.

“No, let me say it correctly. I went into depression. Mental illness is not something people talk about, nor it’s something we consider that it can happened to us. But it did. For months I denied the existence of my problems, pushing myself deeper into the hole, dragging down people around me.” Stadium is quiet. You are barely breathing as Yixing stares right at the camera. The silence is getting longer.

“But you managed to pull through it.” Supplies the interviewer. Yixing blinks and looks at him as if he forgot about him.

“No. Not really. I mean, I did, but I wasn’t alone.” He turns to the side, throwing arm around Jongdae’s shoulder. “This man here was a person without whom I couldn’t have done it. The other two was also a great help.”

Jongdae shows his teeth in bright smile, and for a moment the mood is lifted. But then Yixing focuses back on the camera and somehow, you really don’t know how, but you know who he is going to talk about next.

“And there is another person that… I owe so much to.”

“Is that person special to you?” Asks interviewer and you can feel fury pushing through your veins. Yixing is talking about his mental problems, actually baring himself to the world, and the guy is waiting for some kind of gossip-site juicy news?

“Yes.” Says Yixing steadily, nonetheless, and you feel in dire need of oxygen. It’s like you can’t breathe, waiting for him to elaborate, heart beating madly in your chest. Is it about you? _Is it?_ “She is the one that took care of me, even at the expanse of her own needs, and I’ve let her down. She was the one to push me into right direction, and I made her life hell.”

Suddenly you realize that there are tears on your cheeks. It’s been hell. It’s been living hell. But now with him so earnest in front of the camera and so many people, all you see is him having courage to admit that.

You reach into your bag, knowing that what you are doing is weird and futile.

“And you are telling this, because…” Prompts interviewer and sure as hell you are going to strangle him. Jongdae shoots the guy an annoyed glance, but Yixing doesn’t even blink.

“Because she is the most amazing women I’ve ever met. And yet, I am not strong enough to face her, after what I’ve done. I need to apologize to her. I need to ask for forgiveness. I need to tell her I… It’s way more scary than speedway racing.” His attempt to joke is greeted with scattered laughs. No one seems to notice the sentence he cut out.

But you think you know what was he about to say.

You’ve never deleted his number from your phone. You walked for weeks ignoring the fact that it was still there, and you actually lied to yourself that it shows how strong you are. And now it comes in handy.

You know that probably his phone is in the locker or something, and he is not going to answer it, but… You need to tell him that it’s ok. That you forgave him. That he doesn’t need to be scared to see you.

_That you still want him in your life._

All those months when you tried to forget him – it’s been all a hoax.

You didn’t even want to.

Interviewer moves to Jongdae, who actually comes in front of Yixing to shield him from camera, and you realize that he is shaking slightly.

It was probably harder than he thought it would be, and you are so proud of him. You are dialing, oblivious to the fact that Jongdae’s part of interview is on, the only thing you can see is Yixing.

Yixing who stares ahead, as you are calling him.

What did you expect? No one would race with a phone.

But you are relentless, you can’t hang up, not after what he said.

Maybe someone above decided to smile at you. Maybe it’s just a chance.

But you see a mechanic, one of Yixing’s team, peeping from behind the photo wall, and you see Yixing turning around, and listening to the man, and then disappearing behind the wall.

Dial sounds are cut in the middle.

“Yes?” His voice is shaken and unsure, and now you are openly crying, barely controlling your sobs. You grab your bag and storm out of your seat to hide somewhere. You can hear Yixing softly asking your name on the other end of the line.

You stop at the end of the bleachers, hiding behind a pillar.

“Yixing.” You answer, realizing it’s been months since you said that. It pleasantly rolls off your tongue. “I forgive you. I forgave you.” You say hurriedly, speech chopped because of your sobs. You push the phone against your ear, wanting to be as close as possible to him, feeling both broken and finally putting yourself back together.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” He whispers, voice breaking, and you realize that he is crying.”Where… Where are you?”

“Bleachers sector C.” You know that he’ll come. He will come, and he will get you, and as surreal as it is you realize that you’ll have to call off the blind date that you rescheduled.

You realize that Yixing is walking, and fast, and he shouldn’t, because the official part has not ended yet, and your eyes are red and puffy, but at least your dress is amazing, and the array of thoughts that goes through your mind is just wild.

“I... I am close.” You can hear that he is breathing heavily, and even though you’ve already calmed down, you start crying again. He is coming for you. For once _he_ is coming for _you_.

You see him at the end of the corridor, few of the fans leaving the venue, turning heads after him, surprised. You unglue yourself from the pillar, unsure whether to go to him, or stay in your spot. He is walking fast, on the verge of running, and you break and you take two steps, and he catches you, still in his uniform, padded jacket and padded trousers, tall shoes, and smelling of dust, exhaust and track, but it’s Yixing, and it’s Yixing that hugs you, and it’s Yixing chest that you sob into.

You shake, hands grabbing onto the leather, and he rocks on his heels, repeating over and over again how sorry he is.

“I’ve missed you.” You say in between your sobs, and you hit his chest. “I’ve missed you, you bastard.” You repeat, pushing back to look him in the face. It’s wet, and his eyes are red and puffed.

“I’m sorry.”

“I hated you. I hated you so much.”

“I’m sorry.”

He is shaking and you raise your hand to wipe your tears off your face. You take a deep breath trying to collect yourself.

“How come I learn about all of that from the after-the-race interview?” You say, staring at his face. So long. It’s been so long.

The corner of his mouth twitches as if he tried to smile.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats earnestly, and once again your eyes fill with tears. You choke slightly, and once again hit his chest.

“I hate you, you dumbass.” You say quietly, looking down, feeling tired.” I hate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I missed you.”

Yixing cups the back of your head to bring you close once more.

“There wasn’t a day I didn’t miss you. Only after I left I realized… What you meant to me. What you mean to me.” You hit him again, heart swelling, but tears still falling.

So many days, weeks, months.

“I hate you.” You repeat, lifelessly. You don’t and you both know that. You hate the time you spent apart, the time you spent crying because of him, when you could have been smiling. You hate the time which you spent chasing after the idea of the girl, and not being a girl in your own right. You hate the time you spent letting Yixing ignore his illness.

“I know.” He says, rocking you in his arms. “I know.”

The _I love you_ is left unspoken, but you realize there will be better time for that.

For sure.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What you've been waiting for.

You are half asleep when he gets ready. He tries to be quiet, but you still wake up when his alarm beeps. Still, you stay motionless as he stands up, and dresses and tiptoes out of the room.

It’s something you are used to by now.

You’ve already fallen asleep by the time he comes back, but it’s light so his light steps stir you awake again. He hovers over you, and you hum quietly to let him know that you are awake.

He snorts quietly and sits down on the bed. You can see his soft expression in the green light of your digital clock. The light makes him look sick, but you know it’s only the green tint. He tucks your hair behind your ear and bends down to kiss your cheek.

“I prepared a tea for you.” He says, his hand still on your head. You hum something, still quite sleepy, and he smiles and stands up. He grabs your gown from the hook on the wardrobe and throws it on the bed, and walks out.

You listen as he puts on his shoes, and zips his jacket, and walks out of the apartment. It’s your cue to finally sit up. The hour is just ungodly, but it’s your tradition by now, so you grab the gown, and you pull it on, and you stand up, feeling how cold bites at your naked calves and feet. You go to the toilet first, spotting steaming tea on the window sill and bottle of water on the floor under the window. In the toilet, your body feels a familiar buzz, which quickly turns into a sound. A familiar sound, a sound of an engine.

You wash your face to wake you up completely, and you go to the kitchen. Tea is nice, but tonight you feel like drinking a beer, so you grab one (Yixing’s) for the fridge, and you walk to the window.

You can no longer hear the engines, but you see five motorcycles on the bus stop on the other side of the street. You recognize all of the machines, even if it’s hard to recognize bikers under all of their protective clothing.

You put the beer down, next to the water, and you grab the tea, so you can open the window. It brings cool, crispy air inside and you shiver. It’s cold enough for you to go back to the bedroom for warm socks.

 Marble sill is cold when you climb up on it, but you can stand it. You let your legs down, feet dangling in the air. There is a breeze outside, which caresses your face and steals ribbons of steam from your cup. The tea is perfect, but you still grab the beer, and you pop it open against the sill and throw the cup behind you.

You notice that one of the guys wearing black is waving at you, so you salute him with your beer. It’s probably Jongdae.  It’s confirmed when they all go to their machines. A street that was quiet up till this point is about to become a stage to a very beautiful performance.

They turn on the engines, and the sound that appears is raw but beautiful. It’s rumbling, reverberating in the air, and you hear one of your neighbours shut their window. You smile, because every week is the same, and it’s quite calming how repetitive that even is.

The window frame is digging into your thighs, and even that is familiar. They finally take off, sounds piercing the night and you take a healthy gulp of your beer. The bikers start their first lap, slow as usual, checking the road conditions, but you know that in no time they are going to take the three-lane street into their possession. Jongdae is the one that ends his lap first, and his machine roars when he pushes it to go faster. You know that Yixing is getting better and better, but he still needs to catch up to his friend that never stopped riding.

But it’s ok, he has time.

You observe how Yixing makes a narrow, tires-screeching u-turn, and you know that tomorrow you’ll see the black marks on the street. You know you should be worrying about him, you should scold him for being reckless, but you know that you simply cannot take that away from him. Yixing is not himself without the motorcycle. And you don’t want Yixing without it.

And you enjoy watching him ride it. His lines are beautiful, the way he leads his machine, the way he pushes it flat when he takes the corner. It’s elegant. It’s simply elegant, and by now you can recognize it. You can also appreciate the freedom in what they do. Just breaking limits in the middle of the night, on a deserted street, with air yanking their clothes, their motorcycles howling in the middle of the night. The rumbling sound makes _you_ excited, so you can only imagine how addictive it must be for them. When watching them is intoxicating, actually, riding must be an out-of-the-Earth experience.

 *

You are too lazy to move, even after they finish their practice. You haven’t asked them yet why they chose this particular street, but you are not complaining – it’s for this reason that you’ve met Yixing.

You can hear him open the doors and shed his padded jacket – what is unusual in that sound is that you can hear it hit the floor. Yixing is fighting with his high shoes, and there is something hurried in those sounds, so you turn around on the sill, and you see him in the corridor, looking at you even as he unlaces his shoes.

The shiver goes down your spine, but you don’t move – you want him to come to you. You like him like that. He gets so high on riding, and he sometimes comes home with eyes hot, and fingers demanding, and it seems like it’s such a moment.

It doesn’t matter that you have work tomorrow. It doesn’t matter that in less than three hours you’ll have to wake up. If everything goes as you’d like it to, you are not going to fall asleep.

Yixing is finally making his way to you, and you know that getting him out of his riding pants is going to be _a pain in the ass_. You have no idea why they are so hard to take off, all those belts and zippers.

He enters your personal space, just like he entered your life – pushy and unrestricted, uncaring of consequences. And you just allow him to do so.

He is already hard, and you can feel that which means that he had to walk around with his erection, which would be funny if he wasn’t kissing you, hand on your neck with thump pushing your chin up and his other hand pushing between your body and sill to knead your ass.

He rolls his hips into you, and you are getting really hot, his tongue swiping into your mouth and with knowing how long it’s going to take them off stored in your mind, your hands immediately go for the belt. You can’t really work efficiently with your eyes closed, so it consists more of your hands stroking him thought the fabrics while trying to find the shackles.

Yixing broke the kiss, chest heaving, tickling your lips with his breath.

“God, I wanna eat you out.” He groans, and you echo the sound. It is so hot to hear that, and you are about to answer when Yixing goes down on his knees. Your breath hitches.

“Wait, not here…!” You are sitting in an open window, your feet in fluffy socks in the air, but Yixing ignores your (quite weak) protest, and he yanks the sides of your gown open, and he takes off boxers which you stole from him in the sole purpose of using them as your pajama bottom. He is quick and pushy, and the boxers are clearing your ankles before you know it, and Yixing is pushing your legs open and fits between your thighs, and he just dives in.

You hunch forward at the very first swipe of his tongue on your labia. Your stomach hollows and your adrenaline levels are high. The window is open, and it scares you, but Yixing’s hands are digging into your thighs, and he is lapping at your crotch, and you can’t say no in this situation.

The moment he presses his tongue flat against your clitoris is quite glorious, and your fingers tangle into his hair, and you instinctively push his head closer to you, not allowing him to escape even if he wanted to.

But it doesn’t seem like he wants to because his lips launch themselves to your labia and the tip of his tongue relentlessly teases your clitoris. He switches it up eating you out, tongue licking deep and filthy – you are wet enough for him to produce lewd slurping noises and that’s so hot and so dirty at the same time. And the best part?

He is moaning between your legs. Like he really enjoys that. And that gets you, his tongue and lips teasing you, but his low guttural moans engulfing you – you can only echo them weakly, toes curling in your fluffy socks. The breeze is cooling your back, clothes are sticking to your sweaty body. You are too hot, and you are yanking his hair because you simply can’t help yourself. You keep twitching, your thighs tensing, but it doesn’t seem to faze Yixing, as he keeps either licking into you or pressing against your clitoris, and that is the sweetest torture. Because at this point it’s getting too much, your body pulling back against yourself, unable to withstand the pleasure – but his fingers are sure on your legs, and he holds you down, just like your hands keep pushing his head against you.

His lips close around your clitoris and he sucks, and you might have screamed.

“Shut up, assholes! It’s middle of the night!” You hear from somewhere above you.

“Fuck off!” You scream back, sudden rage surging through you, fighting with the pleasure filling your veins. Yixing is unfazed, still sucking. Your scream breaks into a moan, and you can hear curses and window being shut. “I’m so close.” You wheeze to Yixing, because you are, and he looks up, for the first time since he started, and half of his face is wet, the lower half, and his lips are red and puffed, and his eyes are blown, and he looks so filthy that you have to look away, because that’s simply _too much_.

He goes back, fingers sinking into your tender skin, tongue relentless against your clitoris, and you grab the frame of the window, fear of falling back, adrenaline from it and Yixing between your legs mixing. You can feel yourself cramping, little spasms of your legs closing around his head.

It’s his tenacity, not something spectacular that brings you over, and you lean back, your body unfurling, as pleasure swipes through you, and you can feel the blind panic hitting you when your body starts falling back. Yixing’s hands on your thighs steady you, and he brings you back with his hand on your top, and he kisses you. You grab his face, wet with your slick and his saliva, and you kiss him hungrily.

He leads you off the sill, and closes the window to push you against it. Glass is cold against your back, but you relish that, when he pushes his pants down – just enough to get his dick out. You don’t wait for him, hooking your leg around his waist and you bring him close with your heel on his back. He guides himself with his hands, and you can see how close he is, how close eating you out has gotten him. His dick is dark with all the blood trapped in it, veins popping, head swollen and glistening, and it doesn’t matter that you already came, you want to feel him inside.

Your labia are swollen, hugging the bulbous head from the very beginning, and it’s just amazing when he pushes in. Your knee is buckling, and you need to claw at the sill to keep you upright. Yixing is breathing heavily into your shoulder, so clearly trying to calm himself down. He is so worked up.

“Oh, god.” He moans weakly and you cramp your muscles, but you have to let go immediately because you don’t have enough strength left. It’s enough for him to moan brokenly. “No, wait, I won’t last…”

“Don’t care.” You wheeze and you try again. He bites your shoulder and his hips snap forward, at which you both moan. You raise one of your hands to rest it against his nape, and he grabs your hips, having decided that he needs it _now_. He fucks you quickly, shallowly, but it’s still an amazing way to remind you of the orgasm you’ve just experienced.

It’s mercifully quick, with how spent you both are. You come with a  rumbling groan lodged in his chest and it reminds you of an engine.

Your leg falls down, and you feel weak when he sags against you. You are both breathing heavily, and you realize how sticky you both are, mostly from sweat.

Finally, you laugh.

“Damn, I think I should try riding a motorcycle if it’s so _stimulating_.” You can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“I think it’s a great idea.”

*

“C’mon.” You think Yixing is smiling, but you can’t tell with the helmet on. You have matching helmets, how cute is that? “Put your foot just behind mine.”

“Won’t it fall?” You ask, feeling nervous. The padded clothing is adding to your nervousness.

“Don’t worry about it, I will cushion your weight.”

“Gee, thanks.” You say with mock thankfulness, but you come closer, placing one of your hands on his shoulder. You place your foot where he showed you, and you bring the other leg over the machine, sitting down behind Yixing.

“See? We are still standing. You can either grab me or the handles, but we both know that you’ll prefer me, right?” He laughs, and you shake your head, grabbing him by the waist. “Come closer.”

You slide down on the leather seat, until you are flush against him, hands loosely wrapped around him.

“Mm, sexy.” He says, and you realize that wasn’t necessary.

“Just go.” You mumble, both nervous and excited. He loves it so much, you will enjoy it as well, right. Right?

He says nothing but kicks the leg of the motorcycle back, and turns the key in the ignition. The machine starts rumbling, vibrating between your legs. Your heart starts beating faster. He cranks the throttle and sound gets louder, also vibrations are stronger, adding to your excitement. The smell of exhaust is familiar, and you are anxious to finally feel the wind and the freedom.

He starts, immediately speeding – wind catches in your clothes and you instinctively grab him stronger – but quickly you realize nothing is happening to you. The world around you is speeding, machine roars, wind yanks your padded clothing. You look to your side, just when he going into a corner, laying the machine flat, and your heart goes to your throat, but he clears it without a hitch. Your adrenaline levels jumped, but when you see next corner ahead, you realize you are ready for it. You squeeze his waist slightly, and Yixing cranks the throttle against, speeding by a car, and lays the motorcycle down again, and your body follows his – the vibrating machine under you seems alive.

Your heart is beating fast, and Yixing is firm between your legs, and you realize that you love it.


End file.
